


Of The Wolves And The Orphans

by winterwydow



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 86,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwydow/pseuds/winterwydow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young girl, Keira, has fallen into a life of thieving. She is all alone in the world, no one left to care. That is, until S.H.I.E.L.D. shows up. Hawkeye noticed her during the alien invasion. Will she join S.H.I.E.L.D and become a master assassin, a protégé of Hawkeye? Or will she betray them all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong Place Wrong Time

Decision to go to New York for the summer with my father: worst decision of my entire life, I think to myself dryly. I race down the back alleys, keeping my head down and finding cover anywhere I can. I dodge, weave, lunge, roll, trip, never stopping, never breathing except in gasps that tear at my lungs

The air was rancid with acid on my tongue as I pant and the smoke makes me retch up any food that may have remained in my stomach. An explosion that is only a few blocks away shakes the ground, throwing me off my feet. I feel the sting as the pavement digs into my already blood covered elbows and knees as I roll. I get up and start over again, bent on survival. I duck behind a dumpster as an unknown object flies overhead. I just know that whatever those things are, they are blowing people up without regard to anything or anyone, and I definitely won't be an exception.

 _Thump, thump, thump, thump_ my feet go on the pavement. I feel a twinge in my knee.

_Crap_

_Not now!_

I limp on, trying to ignore the old injury that chooses now, of all times, to make an appearance.

Sweat trickles down my forehead. I feel too weak and light headed to watch where I'm going. I suddenly burst out of the alleyway and into the main street. I let out a little shriek and grab the alley wall, whipping myself back into its shadow. I cling there for a second, letting my sobs rack myself as I rest for a moment, sagging into my own arms.

Suddenly, something catches my eye. Whether it was the wind ruffling the little brown mob of hair, or just a sixth sense, I'll never know, but I look up and see a small boy of about four or five years old standing in the middle of the street. People run by him, fleeing away from oncoming flying objects, but no one takes the time to help him. He must have gotten separated from his parents. He is now standing alone in the debris of the street, staring with wide green eyes at the oncoming bombs.

"Kid!" I hiss, trying to get his attention. "Kid, look at me!" he doesn't even turn. The world seems to slow down, everything is in slow motion. There is no sound. No more bombs, no more gunfire, just me and the boy. After a fraction of a second of hesitation, I start sprinting towards him, but everything is too slow. A bomb goes off on my right, nearly knocking me off my feet, but I press on. Finally, I reach him and grab his tiny body, yanking it against mine protectively, and then everything speeds up. The U. (because they really are Unidentified Flying Objects since I have no idea what they are) are almost on us. Maybe, if I can dodge their fire than I'll be able to make it out, but that is a long shot. Suddenly, a couple of them drop down off the U.F.O's and what I see makes my heart stop.

They are ugly Extraterrestrial creatures. Thick armor like metal encases their whole body while they carry extremely high tech guns in their hands. They seem to almost run on some form of electricity from the wires that I see in their neck. Are they even alive? I shudder and push the boy behind me.

"Get into the alley kid!" I hiss over my shoulder to him. I meet his huge green eyes as he stares up at me. He shakes his head mutely and stubbornly. I grit my teeth in frustration, and admiration. Plucky little kid. But I don't have time for this. The… aliens?... Are almost on us.

"I said get into the alley and run! Do you want me to tell your mother?"

His eyes fill up with unshed tears and he whispers, "My mummy is dead."

I feel a pain in my heart like a rusty, serrated knife stabbing my heart. "You don't want to end up like her do you?" I say a bit harsher than I mean to. "If not, than get your little butt into the alley and run!"

"But you'll die if I go!" he whispers back frantically.

That is probably true, ok, it is true. I'll die anyway whether he stays or not, but I'd rather buy his time than let him die with me, though he will probably die anyway. I can't tell him that. "Kid, I'll be fine. I promise. Now GO!"

He stubbornly shakes his head again and I'm out of time. The first alien is loping towards me in an awkward, jerky, crouching stride. It points its gun, aiming at me. I push the kid one way and dive the other, turning a roll and springing up. I lunge at the alien just as it turns to me, and before it can pull the trigger, I push the nozzle towards another alien, taking it out instead of me.

I grab the gun and try to twist it out of the alien's grip, but only succeed in sending it skidding away from both of us. The alien grapples with me, both seeking a hold. I know absolutely no fighting what-so-ever. I know I can't punch it, not with that armor on.

The alien just gets a hold on my throat and its iron fingers are slowly throttling the life out of me. I throw a frantic glance in the kid's direction and see another alien closing in on him with a leering grin plastered on its face. Anger floods through me. I use my flexibility (courtesy of my old sport, gymnastics) and throw my leg over the alien's head, pushing my thigh into my own face. While it is resting on the alien's neck and I use my other leg to wrap around the other side of its body. This increases the strain on my neck for a second before it lets go to catch its fall as it pitches forward with my body weight. We roll forward and I gain the upper hand. Purely by accident though, this thing is about twice my strength. I grab the wire that is on its neck and pull with all my might. There is the sizzling sound of electricity and a shock that runs through me before it goes still with a shudder.

I spring up and grab the previously discarded high tech gun. The other alien is now aiming the gun at the boy, who is transfixed with fear, still in the same position as when I pushed him over. I run forward and stab it through the back. It too dies with a shudder. I yank the weapon free and watch it fall to the ground. The kid and I just stare at it for a moment.

The kid is the first to recover and scrambles up beside me.

"What do we do now?" he asks.

"Now, we run for our lives. Go!"

But before we can make it to the alley way, a whole squad of these things land around us. I grab the boy's hand and yank him back behind me again. He whimpers and I whirl around only to face another alien. We are surrounded and I know there is no way we are getting out of this alive, so I grit my teeth and decide to go down fighting for the boy.

I fumble with the gun for a moment before firing it supposedly at one of the aliens. Apparently, I had it facing the wrong way and it shoots behind me and hits an alien behind us. I thank God that the boy is so short. He is standing right behind me.

The kid giggles a little bit, irony abounds considering the circumstances. I feel a small smile twitch my lips as well. The first alien starts loping towards us and I raise the weapon, ready to fire, and then they all start moving.

This is it. This is how I'm going to die. Not how I always imagined, I guess.

I grit my teeth and wait for the first onslaught, but it never comes. Something hits the two of us from behind. At first I think it's an alien, but this thing clamps down on my waist and holds on. I try to twist around, not going down without a fight, when suddenly, the winds starts whistling in my ears and my dark hair starts whipping around my face. I freeze and clamp my eyes shut for no particular reason, willing this odd sensation to go away, but it doesn't.

I open my eyes again and the ground is far away. I see the aliens staring up with baffled expressions on their metal faces. Then I notice another pair of black boots next to mine. Twisting around, I find myself face-to-face with a man. My heart rate accelerates and I start struggling again. Who is this guy, and how does he go swinging between buildings like Spider Man?

His low chuckle resonates in my ear. "If you keep struggling, you'll only fall."

My stomach clenches and I think I blanch a little. He's right, and it's a long ways down. I curl up and clamp onto his arm around my waist like a vice. I feel him chuckle again, which makes me grit my teeth in irritation, but I know better than to argue.

I twist around just to make sure the kid is with us, and sure enough, he is somehow being held on to. This man seems to be holding on to a… bow? Who does he think he is? Legolas? A wire seems to be attached to the bow. I follow it up and see an arrow shot into a concrete wall which seems to be some sort of pulley device since we are being wheeled up. I shudder to think that this man's, my own, and the forty pounds of the kid are all being held on the tiny arrow.

The man seems to read my thoughts, which I find unnerving.

"Those things are made to hold, it won't break," he said with a hint of amusement.

I don't have the time to come up with some snide remark. We reach the top of the building, since the arrow is shot right under the edge of the roof, and with a single hoist, he throws me and the kid up. We roll for a couple feet. I lie there for a second, and then start pushing myself up with a groan. I drag myself over to the kid. He seems alright, but he's not moving. I run my fingers through his hair, like I remember my mother doing when I had a nightmare, and start to speak softly to him.

"Hey kiddo, I need you to get up now. We are safe for a little while, I think," I add on as a second thought. Although one would usually be safe from the war this high up, the aliens have those flying mechanisms. As we speak, a couple zoom overhead. I crouch down on reflex until they are gone.

I start searching for the man, and sure enough, he is laboriously climbing up onto the roof. I consider helping him for a moment, but by the look of things, he has it under control, even if it is straining him. I turn back to the boy and immediately find his huge hazel eyes boring into mine.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?" I laugh.

"For saving my life," he whispers back. Wow, this five year old is extremely intelligent for his age. What kind of five year old would think of saying that?

"Don't mention it kid. What's your name?"

"Jackson," he replies. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is still petrified. I try to sooth him.

"Well Jackson, it'll be ok. I promise," I add with a smile. A voice behind me interrupts my thoughts.

"He's not your brother?" the man asks with confusion.

"Never seen him before in my life," I respond. I can see why the man would think that. After all, I was willing to die protecting him. Not many people would do that. I probably did because I know how it feels to be left to the sharks. It's not pretty when everyone abandons you.

He raises an eyebrow in question, but doesn't pursue the subject further. Instead, he offers me a hand, which I gladly except before turning and picking up the little kid and setting him on my hip. Jackson buries his face in my neck and I can feel his hot tears running down my shoulder. I rub soothing circles on his back and turn to the man, looking up at him since he is a good nine or ten inches taller than me.

"So what now?"

He doesn't answer me, but stares at something over my head. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he dives at me with a yell. His body hits mine with a force that knocks all the breath out of my lunges. If I wasn't holding Jackson I probably would have punched him or something. The force of the hit carries us back and smashes my back against the glass windows behind me (even though it is a roof, it seems to be some sort of terrace garden that overlooks Manhattan). I feel some jagged cuts on my back as we hit the ground, but something else catches my attention. The place we were standing two seconds ago bursts into flames as open fire from the alien's flying mechanisms pounds against it. Dang, this man must have some killer vision to see that coming.

He rolls off me and grabs the collar of my surplus army jacket and drags me to my feet. I cradle Jackson and pray that he isn't hurt. The man pushes me towards some desks.

"Get the kid behind those and stay out of sight," he orders. I don't argue and stumble over to them, quickly ducking in the compartment underneath one of the desks. It's dark and quiet in here and oddly comforting after the mayhem outside, but it makes me edgy. Some part of my instinct tells me something is not right.

Jackson lifts his head and I see he has a busted lip and a black eye, but nothing to serious. My body took the brunt of the fall, unfortunately. I can feel the small stabs of pain from the glass shards still inside me every time I move a muscle.

I lift a finger to my lips in a motion for Jackson to stay silent. He understands immediately and nods his head sagely, causing a grin to tug my blood covered lips. Kids are adorable. I twist around as much as I can in our confined space and peek out of a crack between the wood.

I look for the man, but I can't see him anywhere. My first thought is he has abandoned us. Maybe that is a little premature considering the fact that he just saved our lives, but after my past one couldn't blame me for having trust issues. My eyes flicker about frantically for any sign of him, but I find nothing, not a shift of shadow nor the slightest sound.

Sounds outside catch my attention. The aliens must have thought us valuable enough to chase after because I can see them jumping onto the terrace. My breath catches in my throat and I hunch down, pulling Jackson even closer to my chest.

The aliens advance with that odd stride of theirs, their guns poised to fire at anything. I count seven of them. They are getting closer and closer. I try my hardest not to breathe or make the smallest sound, but my breathing accelerates with panic. We are on our own, and if they turn over the right table, Jackson and I are dead. It's like one big game of jackpot.

The last alien enters through the shattered window, and suddenly, I see the man's silhouette slither silently down from the rafters. How did he get there? Then again, why am I even asking?

I see him load his bow, aiming at the alien closest to us, and I hold my breath, praying he has good aim.

_Twang!_

_Phhht!_

_Thump!_

His arrow finds its mark perfectly and I wonder why I even doubted his skill. The aliens let out ear grating screeches and turn to converge on the man. I panic for a moment, but then see that he has everything completely under control. He uses his bow as a staff at close courters, and then fires when he can, but it is slow going. These things have heavy armor and even someone as trained as the man has a hard time taking one down in a single stroke. I remember just how lucky I was to have survived the first encounter.

I forget about Jackson and loosen my grip on him a little as I lean forward breathlessly to watch the fight. That is a big mistake. He lifts his head just a little and is able to peek out of the crack. He sees one of the alien's necks being snapped by the man and lets out a small scream. I immediately clamp my hand over his mouth, but I'm too late. An alien pauses mid attack and turns our direction.

My blood freezes. It slowly saunters over, its malicious eyes peering around our general area. I desperately look towards the man for help, but he is too busy in the attack to notice our predicament. If I call out for help, it will only end up in getting us killed for certain.

I lean forward and my breath tickles the boy's ear as I say a softly as possible while still being heard, "I'm going to create a diversion. When that happens, you crawl over to the corner of the room and do not make any noise, do you understand me? And no more stubborn hero antics this time little punk."

He nods mutely, his intense hazel eyes wide with unspoken terror. I peek into the crack again and see that the alien is closer to us. It is heading right for this desk, its gun poised to fire and its metallic face fiendishly twisted in a jerky grin. I nod once to Jackson and he nods back in acknowledgement. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Suddenly, I galvanize into action. I push Jackson away from me and whirl around, lying on my back and using my feet as levers, I push the desk with all my might.

_Whump!_

It skids and hits the alien right in the face. Before it can get up and recover, I'm on top of it. I wrench its gun out of its grip and whirling it around, shoot the alien in the face. I freeze momentarily at the horrific sight. The alien seems to be a mixture of metal and wires, but also a white, lifeless, slimy flesh that was blown open when I shot him. But that moment I paused cost me. I feel a shooting pain in my leg. It is so intense that I almost wonder if this is all a dream. Then again, you're not supposed to feel things in dream, right?

I whip my head up and fire at the first moving thing I find. Luckily it isn't the man, but the alien that shot me in the leg first. Then the pain really sets in and I collapse to the ground with a cry of help to the man. I see him turn towards me and his face hardens at what he sees. There are only two left that he is battling. He whips out and arrow and buries it in one's neck without even bothering to load it into his bow, and then he uses a knife and slashes another one through what would be the heart on a human

He pauses a moment, looking about him as if for more targets, breathing heavily, but sees all the enemies are dead.

His gaze travels to me, and I can literally see his jaw clench. I thought people only did that in books.

In a moment, he is by my side and lifts me up gently, so as not to hurt my leg, but I can't stifle a cry anyways.

"I told you to stay out of sight. You could have gotten killed, or worse. Why didn't you listen?" he asks. His voice is cool, but I can sense the irritation behind the question.

I look him straight in the eye and answer, "Because I'm really stupid."

Humor, the ultimate stress reliever.

He snorted a little with a lopsided grin. I take that as a laugh. I don't look down in fear of what I'll see. Instead, I let this man handle it.

He props me against an upturned desk and stretches my leg out to get a better look. I watch him carefully as he examines it, but his face doesn't betray a single thing. He could be looking at the Sunday morning's paper for all the cool face he puts on.

I lean my head back and stare fuzzily at the horrible office ceiling. I had forgotten all about my knee. The adrenaline from the chase had probably eased the pain. I feel the man's fingers probe around and wince. To keep my mind occupied I try striking up a conversation.

"So what is your name?"

He glances at me momentarily before returning to my leg, "Hawkeye."

"Seriously, your name is Hawkeye?" I ask incredulously. Who has that kind of name?

He taps his temple, "Code name girl. Speaking of which, what is yours?"

I stiffen for a moment and then force myself to relax. Any normal person wouldn't have caught this little move, but Hawkeye did. I can tell from the odd glance he shoots me. I can't tell him my real name, so I invent one. "Stephanie Riles is my name. I don't have a code name," I can't help but add. This brings a ghost of a smile to his face.

He suddenly seems preoccupied. His hand goes to his ear and he presses it as if he had an ear piece in it. Then it hits me, he probably does. All spies do, in movies at least. I let out a groan as a fresh wave of pain hits my leg.

"Nat, are you busy? Helping wounded civilians in here, but I need backup. No, meet me rendezvous spot. You still with the Captain? Good."

I guess he is talking to someone over the com line. Probably other master assassins that are helping fight this extraterrestrial attack.

He turns to me with a pointed gaze, "And you, we need to get you and the boy to a safe area. You will wait there until I come and find you again, is that clear?" he asks sternly. I nod mutely with the sincere intention to do exactly the opposite of what he says. I don't trust anyone to 'come and get me' from anywhere. If he wants to take me to the hospital, well I can do that just fine by myself, and if he wants to kidnap me, well… I know how to hide extremely well.

I look around for the kid, and he is sitting right next to me. I don't know how I didn't hear him. His mop of brown hair is tangled in all directions and his freckled face is smeared with blood, but when I look at him his face lights up in a genuine smile. I can't help but smile back.

"Nasty cut you got you your leg," he said, pointing at it. My eyes follow his finger down to my leg. Big mistake.

I almost heave right then and there. I swear, the pain increases about double once I see what it looks like. Below my knee is a huge burn that stretches across my shin all the way down to the bone at the worst part. My calf seems to be better, but this burn would probably qualify as fourth degree burn instead of third.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and snap out of staring at my leg. I lift my eyes and find myself face to face with Hawkeye. His green-blue eyes intense with adrenaline and his hair slightly plastered with sweat.

I realize I must have almost fainted and that I clutched the nearest thing to me with a death grip, which happened to be his arm. I slowly pry my fingers off, revealing deep nail marks embedded in his skin. Glancing up apologetically, I mumble, "Sorry 'bout that."

He chuckled good naturedly, "No problem. Don't worry about your leg. It's just a burn. It'll hurt like hell for a couple weeks, but no permanent damage."

I leaned my head back with a groan and grasped my thigh in a pitiful attempt to ease the burning. "You and I have a very different connotation with the word 'worry.'"

He chuckled again. Suddenly, the world underneath me disappeared and strong arms clasped around my shoulders and under my knees. I might have screeched a bit and clutched him frantically as he picked me up.

"Hey kid, keep up," Hawkeye calls over his shoulder to Jackson. I peer over his shoulder as well just to make sure the kid is coming. Jackson stumbles to his feet and starts trotting after us to keep up with Hawkeye's long strides.

I feel uncomfortable with our proximity. It's not like I'm some chastity freak that doesn't get within a foot of a man, but I've only known this guy for a couple hours. Sure, he saved my life, but that gives me no more reason to trust him than another thug off the streets. Any rat can save my life, but they always do it for a price. Earning no more respect of trust from me than if they had let me die. Call me paranoid, but my theory has worked so far. I'm alive now, right? My point proven.

I stay very stiff in his arms, ready for any sudden movement. A small smirk twitches at his lips, though it isn't a smile, or a laugh, it's just an expression of wry sarcasm. This guy has a very annoying 'devil may care' attitude.

"Feeling comfortable," he asks sardonically.

"Beats walking," I try to sound as lighthearted as possible, but I know he cans see through my ruse. The fact that he knows about my trust issues makes me paranoid and the fact that he can see that I'm trying my hardest to cover them up makes me feel uncomfortable. A rather unpleasant position to be in the whole.

Luckily, he doesn't try to start up any more conversations and contents himself with indulging in his sarcastic remarks in his head. I'm not about to complain though.

He sets a swift pace and starts heading down the endless passages of stairs. He is going extremely fast, and I can only imagine how fast he could move if he wasn't burdened with an injured civilian and a toddler.

"Couldn't we take the elevator?" I remark as we are about half way down. All the jostling of the stair is making my leg burn like a white hot piece of metal is being shoved against my shin. I clench my teeth to stop myself from crying out and occasionally I have to squeeze my eyes shut to stop tears from welling up. I still feel uncomfortable, to say the least, but you get used to it after a while, and frankly, I would prefer this to walking.

"Sorry about that," he says as an apology. He actually sounds genuine. I'm sure he can see my ill attempts of covering my pain, and the apology is for the jostling. Of course, he doesn't answer the question since it was mostly rhetorical. No elevator would be safe and no sane person would use it when there is an extraterrestrial attack.

We run down the stairs, turn a corner, run down another flight, turn a corner, and so on and so forth. I am checking on Jackson anxiously, trying to make sure he's keeping up. He is staggering a little now, his tiny brow puckered in concentration. I know it is only a matter of time before he stumbles.

We are about three fourths of the way down when he finally trips over his own feet and goes head first down the stairs. Luckily, Hawkeye was already at the bottom of the flight, is Jackson doesn't take us down with him as well.

I squirm in Hawkeye's arms. "Let me down and help the kid. I can walk."

Hawkeye's face is grim, "No way in hell that's happening. You couldn't make it three steps."

"I can take care of myself," I snap. "The kid needs more help than me."

"I don't see the kid with the skin on his leg practically melted off. He can take a few bruises, isn't that right kid?"

Jackson stands shakily up, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just quit calling me kid. My name is Jackson."

I feel a smile twitch at my lips despite myself. So we keep going. Finally, we reach the bottom. Hawkeye sprints through the lobby of the building (Jackson at his heels) and bursts out into the war ravaged street. The fight is still hot down here. Luckily, there are no aliens picking on us presently. I look over Hawkeye's shoulder and see one hassling some civilians. My blood boils.

"Hawkeye, you have to help them!" I shout over the noise. He meets me in the eye and his face is grimly cool. It sends shudders down my spine.

"I can't save everyone, Stephanie. Sometimes you have to choose."

My eyes fill with hopeless tears. I want to ask him why he picked me. I want to ask him not to save me and help people who might actually be worth his trouble, but I can't open my mouth. I gaze over his shoulder, my vision clouded with tears.

The alien raises a gun to a girl about my age. She is fighting. She is fighting to stay alive so hard. Her wild eyes raise at the same time as the gun and she sees her doom right in front her. She freezes and knows it's the end. Her eyes close and suddenly, her face goes extremely calm. I can see her courage. She opens her eyes and meets mine. My hand flies to my mouth as I cover it in horror. We share a small moment right there. A link forms itself without consent. I feel like this girl is my sister.

I shake my head in horror. She just nods her head resolutely. She is trying to communicate with me. She is saying things that words cannot express. Then she closes her eyes and the shot is fired. It ends.

I let out a strangled sob and burry my face in Hawkeye's chest, trying to block out the image. But I know what comes next. Her body will slump, lifeless, to the ground. Her blood will spread across the pavement like a blanket and her dull eyes will be glazed over in death, but I can't accept it.

She deserved to live. She deserved it so much more than me.

"You should've saved her. She deserved it more than me," I sob out loud into Hawkeye's chest. "I don't deserve it. I don't—"

I break off, unable to continue as I huddle in his arms, feeling something that makes me sob even more. Vulnerable.

I honestly don't know what happens from then on. I try to shut out the world as I bury my face in the hard armor of Hawkeye's vest, my hot tears making the rough polyester weave hot and damp. I don't care.

Suddenly, Hawkeye sets me down. I gasp in pain and clutch at my leg, but his hand catches my wrist.

"Don't touch it, that'll make it worse. I won't bandage it yet. It should breathe. I'll be back as soon as I can and you are going to stay here," he emphasizes the last part. He doesn't wait for conformation and sprints off to save the world. I look to where he has left us (Jackson is still with us. How he kept up with Hawkeye I have no idea). We are in a back alley like the ones I was hiding in at the beginning of the attack. Hawkeye tucked us behind a dumpster and next to a chain link fence. I realize that we are in such a position that if anyone walked by they wouldn't see us if we kept completely still. It is a little freaky to think that he can find such a place.

All I want to do right now is curl up in a ball and sob, never moving. But this guy will be back and when he comes I need to be long gone.

"Jackson, are you ok?" I croak. He nods, his eye brimming with tears. I ruffle his hair affectionately. "Don't worry about it kid, we'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about me. I saw a woman. She was old. She was just standing there, praying to God to save her, and he didn't. The alien shot fire out of its stick and she collapsed and never moved again. Will she go to heaven and meet God? Why didn't he save her?" Jackson sobbed brokenly through a flood of tears that appeared through his pitiful defense against them. I felt the searing pain in my chest that was always so familiar, but this time it felt so much more vivid than before. Before when it was… NO! I won't let myself go there! Not now at least.

I pull the kid to me and nestle him under my arm. "Hey, it's ok. God has his own plans, and although we might not understand them they are there for a reason. It's like a painting. We only see a miniscule part of it, and that pattern may not make any sense, but when God's painting is done than we see how our little part fit into his big masterpiece. That woman didn't die needlessly." I don't know that I'm so much talking to Jackson and about the old woman as much as I'm talking to myself and about the young woman. Though these words cause Jackson to perk up a little, they fall dead on my ears. They are the same words I have been telling myself desperately for years, all the while hoping that I'll find some peace in them, but only becoming more and more tormented.

I snap myself out of it. Get yourself together Keira, I mentally berate myself. "Ok Jackson, we need to get moving."

"But Hawkeye said we need to wait until he gets back," Jackson complained with a whine in his voice.

"I know what Hawkeye said, but plans change. We need to get out of here and now," I reply firmly.

Jackson narrows his eyes and looks at me shrewdly. "You don't trust him," he states matter-of-factly.

I shrug, "That might be an understatement."

"But why? He saved our lives," Jackson tries to reason.

I can feel my face harden. "Kid, people do a lot of things for a lot of reasons. Hawkeye might have saved our lives out of the goodness of his heart, but then again not. Better not to find out than stick around for something bad to happen. If he really wants to help than he would be happy to know that you and I made it to a hospital and leave it at that."

Jackson pouts, but doesn't say any more. Slowly and painfully, I pull myself up. Leaning on Jackson, we make our way out of the alley. Things seem to have died down quite a bit, or maybe the fighting is somewhere else. I recognize the street we are on and lead Jackson towards the nearest hospital. It takes an effort that is beyond belief (and I won't describe it to you because you would get bored very quickly) to make it all the way there, but we do. I am in terrible shape though.

Finally we drag ourselves up to the hospital doors and into the lobby. My world is reeling as I try to croak out some words for help, but instead I just keel over, my vision swimming. Jackson is yelling something and I see paramedics run up through my distorted and hazy vision. That is all I see before I completely black out.


	2. Going Underground

I am in limbo. There is no time or space. Only dark blackness that surrounds me in oblivion. Some say that oblivion is bliss. I beg to differ. It is hell. I cannot wake up from it even if I want to. I cannot hold an actual thought process. But what scares me most is I cannot know if I am in danger or not. Someone could be preparing to kill me at this moment and I would never know.

Time has no meaning, but finally I feel my senses slowly returning. I can feel myself lying on a surface, though I cannot determine what the surface is made of. I feel the dark edge of the oblivion start to slip away and my sense of direction comes slowly. I am lying on my back. My hearing returns next. I register an odd beep, beep in the background. My fingertips brush against what I think is rough fabric. Slowly, my swimming vision comes as I blink my eyes open.

I'm lying on my back in a hospital room with a heart monitor and tubes and wires all hooked up around me. I feel fine, except for the throbbing pain in my leg. I rip off the tubes and wires, causing an alarm to go off, but I ignore it. Looking down at my leg, I see it has been bandaged and cleaned and I can feel the shot of pain killers in my system. Despite the fact that the burn is extremely bad, it didn't seem to go too deep that it was life threatening, but I'm sure I'm going to walk with a limp for the rest of my days. I wince at the thought and quickly cover up the wound with the bandage again.

I know I only have a couple seconds before the nurse comes in. I rummage around in the draws and find my old clothes neatly folded and tucked away. They have been cleaned luckily, though they still have holes in them. I tug them on without regard to my injury and tuck some painkillers into my pocket. I limp to the window and look out. Luckily I am only a two stories off the ground. I shove the window open and balance in a crouch on the ledge. I hear the door open behind me and an angry voice yelling at me. I ignore it and jump into the air, but not in the direction of the ground. I jump and grab a drain pipe, using it to shimmy down to the ground. Luckily this doesn't use my leg too much, but it still hurts like hell. Once I land, I take off sprinting as fast as I can, but my limp is horribly obvious. I run away from the hospital and into a nearby alleyway. I slow to a walk and weave in an impossible maze through the back alleys and slums of New York that I know so well. No one will be able to follow me, especially that Hawkeye. I just hope that he isn't so persistent that he will follow me to the ends of the earth, but from the look of it, it seems as though he works for some big organization with lots of connections.

I finally make it to my first hide out. It is simply a hole in a wall, but I crawl into it and block up the entrance behind me. Searching for a moment to my right, my fingers come in contact with a flashlight that I click on. Before me is a tunnel and I crawl along it for about a minute before immerging in my haven. Though outside is dirty and filthy, it is warm, clean, and organized in here. I pull a string and lights flicker on with the humming of electricity. A nice couch is tucked in the corner with a warm, fuzzy blanket draped over it, a full length mirror occupies another corner and an animal skin rug covers the hard cement floor. I won't stay here long, just until I can move. I lie down on the couch and stare at the cement ceiling, thinking of the past events. I wonder if Jackson made it ok.

Hawkeye's P.O.V.

It was over, finally. The aliens were all defeated thanks to Stark and his nuke. Speaking of Stark, he will not shut up about his quick rescue. Sure, at first I felt obligated to him since he saved our asses and all of New York's, but that feeling melted away as soon as the complaining, snarky, smart ass Stark came back.

Shawarma, you've got to be kidding me. But here we are eating in the cheap, beat up restaurant. It is peacefully quiet though, as all our quiet exhaustion fills the air. It has a sense of finality to it, but something keeps nagging me in the back of my mind. That girl. She looks like she is probably a kid off the street. Her clothes were nice, but years of my job tell me they were stolen, or borrowed as she would probably say. I'm betting she is a runaway.

Why am I taking so much interest in her? Well, it is because of a lot of reasons. I saw her cornered. I saw her when she thought she was going to die, and I thought so too, and I saw her courage. Her talent, though in the raw and undefined, was undoubtedly there. The will and determination she had to live, combined with her unnatural flexibility and quick reflexes were the ideal combination to make a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, or assassin. Natasha and I were the only two with our kind of training and who knows how soon S.H.I.E.L.D. might need another? She was too golden of an opportunity to pass up, and I don't intend to.

After about five minutes more, I push away from the table and head out the door without a word. I feel all five eyes on me, but stubbornly ignore them. I push open the swinging door and walk into the bright sunlight. Pausing for a moment, I blink to let my vision adjust. The carnage and rubble around me is unimaginable, but it is not my duty to work search and rescue. My duty is done, except for one final deed.

I take off through the streets, traveling completely silently and staying in the shadows. Many an unsuspecting civilian doesn't even realize how close an assassin was to brushing their arm. I laugh silently to myself thinking of how many people would be dead right now if I wished them to be. True, these thoughts might disturb the normal person, but then again, I'm not normal. It's just my job.

I turn the corner, heading straight for the dumpster behind which I hid the girl and kid. Something isn't right. I frown and break into a sprint. My suspicions are confirmed as I near the dumpster. Newspapers flutter inconsolably as they yield their empty hands where a small girl and a young kid rested not too long ago. Of course, what had I been thinking? The girl was too smart, and stubborn, to stay in one place for long. She was off the street, a spawn of the slums. She probably knew more about the backhanded ways than the freakin mafia. Her evasiveness only adds to my determination. No person has ever eluded my net for long.

I search for a blood trail from her burn and sure enough, I see one headed down the opposite way I came. I head stealthily down the alley and follow it into the street. The blood trail turns left. I pause for a moment, wondering where she was going, and then it hits me. Of course, she would head to the hospital and get treatment. No doubt she had already moved on, someone like her who was running from me would no doubt be smart enough to stay no longer than a day in one place, but I head to the hospital anyway.

I burst through the lobby, walking up to the nearest nurse. The hospital is in an uproar, as might be expected. The nurse turns to look at me and I visibly see her shrink. No doubt my weapons strapped all over my body must give a rather alarming first impression, but I don't have time for that. Instead, I get right to the point.

"Has a teenage girl with dark hair, hazel eyes, about five foot tall and a severe leg burn been here?"

The woman looks at me skeptically, trying to decide whether or not to answer me. Unfortunately for her, I don't have time for this. With a growl, I step closer. The words literally babble out of her mouth.

"A girl matching your description came. She was put in the I.C.U., but the minute she woke up she escaped out the window. Climbed like a monkey out of a tree she did!" the woman added indignantly. I couldn't help but smirk. That is definitely the girl I'm looking for. Without another word, I turn heel and leave the woman standing dumbfounded.

Static bursts on my com line before a voice comes in.

_"Agent Barton, we need you on the bridge. An evacuation carrier is being sent for you and the Avengers. Meet at rendezvous spot Alpha 110. Over and out."_

I continue on my path, deep in thought. I'll have a better chance of finding the girl with the help of the technology of S.H.I.E.L.D. than on my own. She has gone to earth and disappeared in the slums of the city. It would take me a long time to find her if I tried. Too long.


	3. The Brass

I'm back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters after having seen Loki being transported to Asguard with Thor for his sentence. Now I am having an argument with one of the techs.

"Ryan, I need an override to protocol 34. I need this face trace and now."

"I might lose my job if I do this!"

"You'll lose a lot more than you job if you don't," I respond threateningly. The nervous geek in front of me wrings is hands, knowing the truth of my statement. His spikey hair quivers and I can see him quaking in his knitted cardigan and owl glasses. "Remember, you owe me. I won't let this come back to you anyways."

He pauses. "So this is off the books?"

"Yep, just you and me."

"And they won't trace it back to me?" he asks, uncertain.

"Sure," I shrug.

"Fine, but only because I owe you for that one time and this isn't happening again," he says, snapping the picture of the girl from my hands.

"Whatever Copernicus," I hiss before leaving the computer facility. I had gotten the picture from a feed on a camera on my bow. S.H.I.E.L.D. has all the toys.

With the recourses the geek has, there's no way she can stay completely hidden for long. Besides, she obviously made her living off thieving so it shouldn't be too long before she shows up on the radar.

 

* * *

 

 

**Keira's P.O.V.**

It had been two weeks now. I was finally out of hiding. My leg was healing as well as it could, but I have a very visible limp and an angry red burn running down my leg still. I wore jeans and long pants to cover the bandages, but that didn't do much since my limp was a big give away. I walk through the streets of New York, heading to my next hideout. The hole in the wall is nice, but a little cliché. After all, it's not like I'm some criminal off the streets. Well, the police force would beg to differ, but who cares about them.

I'm in the better part of town, definitely a place that would be noticed as a prime spot for a person on the 'Most Wanted' list. I trot up the steps of a cute, yellow bungalow house and pull the key from under the door mat. After a bit a jimmying, I step inside. It is not overly furnished, but light and airy with an open floor plan and cute window treatments. Light colors are everywhere, making it seem like it is sunny inside. Plush, comfy couches are positioned in front of a large flat screened TV. I toss the key onto the kitchen nook table, making myself at home. I just have to wait for tonight when I'm going to make my daily thieving rounds. I might be a little incapacitated, but no one has been able to catch me so far and I need some more clothes and money. I'm betting I'll be fine.

* * *

 

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I am getting frustrated. It has been two weeks and no sign of the girl. No amateur has been able to stay away from S.H.I.E.L.D. that long. I just have to wait, and that is something I'm good at.

I'm at the target practice with my bow. _Breathe in, breathe out, release, phhht._  Bullseye.

I never miss. Ever. The pattern repeats itself and I find something soothing about its rhythm.

Suddenly my pager beeps. I'm needed in the computer facility. He's found her. I pack up my bow and head over through the maze of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

I reach the door and lean in, letting it scan my face. A female mechanic voice speaks.

_"Agent confirmed."_

The door opens and I stride in. The geek is waiting by the door with a file in his hands. He holds it out to me and I take it, flipping it open.

"She showed up on our radar just now. She apparently had some fun at a bank and a clothing store. A bit odd if you ask me, but another fact, she's on the most wanted list of New York for all her burglaries. They never got complete footage of her, but the description is definitely her. I was able to hack into the security feed and get a view, but she is amazingly good at avoiding cameras, or at least hiding her face from them. I matched her silhouette the one of your picture, and it is an identical match."

The geek babbles on as I skim over the file he pulled up from the picture I gave him. I have the location and now her past. The geek's next words snap me out of my reading.

"There is one problem though. I found that file in the deceased. Her date of death was July 19th, 2010," he points at the bottom of the file to where her date of birth and date of death are together.

"So this means that you are either looking for a ghost, literally, or this person is a pro, or she has the help of pros. Why would she want herself to disappear?"

"No idea Geek, but I'm sure as hell going to find out," I respond grimly.

"Are you now? Because I don't remember giving any authorization for this juncture," says a new voice behind me. I wince a little, shooting the Geek a dirty glare. He cowers.

"I had to tell the director. I could've lost my job!" he defends himself. I promise with my eyes that I'm going to make him pay for it later, slowly and painfully.

"Agent Barton, let's have a talk," Director Fury says. I turn and find his one eye studying me with a calculated look. I nod curtly and move to the door.

The Director follows me out into the hall and I hear the door slide shut behind us. No one is here, so I stop and look at him expectantly. The Director places his hands behind his back as if debating how to approach this.

"Agent Barton, I would like to know your interest in this kid, for kid she is."

I debate in turn, trying the word I'm about to say, testing them and seeing how they sound before answering. "I saved her life during Loki's war. I saved her because I saw talent. I saw all the traits needed to make an assassin like Romanoff, but I saw the qualities needed to make a soldier as well. She could be a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. with the right training. I saw talent in the raw. She is only fifteen, is on the Most Wanted list of New York, granted she is at the bottom, but they haven't so much as caught a facial of her, she faked her death so her real identity isn't even a possibility of being suspected."

I pause to see his reaction. He seems to be considering my proposal.

"So you basically want to train her as your protégé?"

"More or less sir, but she is undoubtedly off the street, in need of a better life, in a perfect position for S.H.I.E.L.D. to offer her a place."

He pauses again before answering, "Very well Barton, I'll follow your lead on this, but if this goes south, it will be blamed on you."

"Understood," I respond.

"Good, now get on a transport and out of here," the Director dismisses me. I nod and walk off, heading straight for the hanger. The girl, or Keira Matheson as the file said, will not have long before she gets a surprise.


	4. Found

It's about midnight and I am staked out in the shadows of Keira's house. She is inside, I watched her come home, but I'm simply observing her for now and getting to know her patterns. After all, I see better from a distance. This also needs to be handled with tact. I can't just barge into her house. I would literally have to drag her back to the helicarrier and that would do no one any good.

She is skittish. I can tell by her constant looks thrown over her shoulder even inside her house. She can sense me watching her. Just another quality that makes a perfect agent, or assassin.

I watch. I wait.

* * *

 

**Keira's P.O.V.**

It was a good haul. I robbed a bank without any problems as usual. I smirked, leave the police to try and crack that job. No loose ends, that's how I work. I also expanded my wardrobe. All girls love clothes right? But I can't shake this feeling that I'm being watched. At the slightest sound I skitter and look over my shoulder, expecting someone to come crashing through the door. I inwardly berate myself for acting like a child, but I think my gut is trying to tell me someone's out there. I go to the back room in the house and hide the brief case of money in place no one would find it, even if they tore the house apart, then head to the couch to curl up with my concealed carry under the pillow, just to be safe.

I turn on a random TV channel and try to stay awake, but to no avail. I feel my eyelids drooping, and fall asleep, curled up in a corner of the couch.

It's light when I wake up. I know I didn't wake up on my own accord. I could swear I heard the faintest of clicking in the doorknob. My head flies up and I reach for my concealed carry, poised and tense, just waiting for the door to fly open. Nothing happens. After what must be fifteen minutes, I slowly relax and shift my position as quietly as I can, gently pushing myself to my feet and walking like a cat to the door. I pass it and walk to the window, still holding the gun by my side, and search around the house. My eye searches for the slightest disturbance in anything, but the plants on the porch or untouched, there are no footprints tracked on the porch, hell, not even the dew has left foot marks in the grass. I slowly relax, telling myself that everything is ok. _Too much excitement must have upset me_ , I think dryly.

* * *

 

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I lie on my back, staring at the clear blue sky and cursing myself. This girl is no fool and a very light sleeper. I had been picking the lock, no, I had been turning the door knob when she woke, startled by the slightest sound of the old iron squeaking in protest to my efforts of silence. I had jumped up and grabbed the eaves, hoisting myself up onto the roof just in the nick of time. Five minutes passes and I roll over and make my way, completely silent this time, to the other window. Leaning over and getting a good grip on the eaves, I stare into the window upside-down, watching her carefully as she stares motionless at the door, waiting for me to burst through the door or something. Eventually she relaxes her stiff position enough to go check the door. I thank God inwardly that I made sure to leave no tracks or sign of my presence.

Eventually, she must be satisfied with what she sees and turns, shaking her head as if to clear it. I know what she is thinking, she is thinking she is going crazy and I smirk a bit knowing the affect I can have on people.

I tighten my grip on the eaves and hold on with one hand as I let the rest of my body fall sideways and swing from my hold, not making a single sound, then drop to the ground in a crouch, barely peering into her house. Speaking of the house, I wonder who would have sold an obvious minor a house. Seriously, isn't anyone decent enough to check and see that a minor isn't in trouble? Then again, what would they care, she probably paid them in cash. Or maybe they were just too unobservant to notice.

I wait, lost in my thoughts, when suddenly I hear the front door slam. I walk in a stealthy crouch to the side of the house and watch. I know she can feel my eyes on her back because she turns, her quick eyes scanning for me, but I know she can't see me from her vantage point, but as she turns around I catch my breath.

Instead of the obvious fifteen year old, here is a twenty-four year old at least. She is wearing humongous heels, increasing her height to at least five feet five inches while her face is tactfully covered in makeup. The dark and light of it casts dramatic and exotic shadows over her eyes and cheekbones. Her dark hair is pulled away from her ivory face in a tastefully curled messy bun while she wears casual jeans (which conveniently cover her burn) and a loose blouse with the same surplus military jacket she was wearing when I first saw her. Now I see how she got the house.

* * *

 

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I could swear I'm being followed. That nagging sensation of eyes on the back of my head is growing so intense that I feel half mad. My eyes scan and rescan my house looking in the nooks and crannies trying to see even the slightest movement, but I come up with nothing. The house is sitting staring at me innocently without as much as a flutter. With one last look, I pull my eyes hesitantly away and stride forward, walking in the certain style women with heels only can. I'm heading to church. Though I might not strike as the religious type, I'm a Roman Catholic. My mother was, so I feel close to her every time I enter attend. It is Sunday, so I attend the Mass.

After everything that has happened, my religion is the only thing that has been stable in my life. I can't risk getting settled in the church's community, so I always hide out until Communion before going up and receiving the Eucharist. I usually watch from the abandoned balcony. For some reason, the choir never sings up there so I always use it. No one ever notices and it is the perfect place to hide out.

I walk a couple blocks to the church, all the while listening for footsteps behind me and hearing none. I soon give up straining my ears and try to forget my discomfort. Instead I focus on walking normally. With heels and my burn, my limp is even more pronounce than with normal shoes, but no one would take me seriously if I looked like I was only five feet zero inches.

I enter the church and climb to the balcony, taking my normal seat by the railing overlooking the congregation. I fall into a dreamy state, watching the service, and cup my chin in my hands thinking about past memories that flit around my mind like half-forgotten ghosts.

The service is almost done, when something catches my attention. A man is leaning against the wall in the shadows, watching the service intently. I recognize his profile and the blood drains from my face. So I was being followed after all. I grip the edge of my seat with white knuckles and sit paralyzed. How on earth did he find me? That's a stupid question, he's trained for this, the question I should be asking is why did I think I'd lost him so easily?

His eyes slowly climb up and find mine on the balcony. I blanch even more visibly, and I know he can see it even in the dim light. He raises an eyebrow gives me a mock salute. This kind of open threatening is even more frightening to me than the ones I have faced in the past. He looks away, back towards the service and I use the moment to duck and hide, though I know it really doesn't matter. He meant for me to do that. He enjoys the hunt. It makes me feel sick in my stomach. I can't get down the stairs without him seeing and I can't exactly climb down any other way. The only way out of here is up. I peek from under the railing and see he is gone. That probably means he is coming for me. I only have a couple minutes before he reaches me and who knows what will happen if he gets me. In fact, I have absolutely NO idea what he wants from me, but I've found that it is usually safer to not stick around and find out.

I spot a small opening from the balcony into the roof. Perfect. I pull the string that brings down the stairs and jump up into it, scrambling up the ladder like a monkey. I don't bother to shut it behind me. First, I don't have time, and second, he it is going to take longer than it would give me time to get away. He is trained to find spots like that and will know right away where I went.

I emerge on the roof and kick off my shoes, taking them in one hand and sprinting, with a horrible limp, away to the side of the roof. I see a fire escape that I can use and waste no time in clambering down it. I'm only a fourth of the way down when I hear scrabbling above me and looking up, I see the man following me down. I get about three fourths of the way down, and risking a quick glance down below, I let go. I hit the pavement hard and somersault out of it to break the fall, but I can feel the bruises forming. It hurts, badly.

I run through the alley that I landed in, not looking behind me to see where Hawkeye is. I can guess. I have no hope of outrunning him, but I think I stand a chance if I use my knowledge of alleyways. I keep dodging in and out of alleys, leading him on a merry chase. Sometimes I double back in a circle. Finally, I get to the street I need and dive into my old hideout that I used when I got out of the hospital. I lie there, panting and waiting for the man to run by. He does eventually and I hear his footsteps fading in the distance. I know I only have a couple minutes before he figures out my trick, so I get to work. I scurry down the tunnel and into the hideout. Luckily I have my surplus army jacket, which I wear almost all the time, and jeans. I quickly swap my blouse for a fitted T-shirt and throw some running shoes on. I scurry back out the tunnel just as Hawkeye rounds the corner. I break into the fastest sprint I can manage as I hear his shout behind me. I start dodging alleyways again, all the while leading us closer to the subway.

My breath is completely out and I'm almost spent. I am a good sprinter, but my endurance is lacking, especially with my burn. This man seems to have no shortage in either category, besides, I'm sure he can sprint much faster than me. I stumble on, pushing myself faster as I desperately clutch a side cramp. I know that he knows I am starting to slow up.

Instead of turning off sharply, like I usually would, I keep going, heading straight for a busy street. I hear his footsteps behind me as he gets nearer. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see him sprinting after me. My eyes are wild with panic and my hair is disheveled as strands around my face have fallen out of my bun and cling to my face in sweat. I turn forwards run for the street. If I can make it, than I think I can get away.

I make it!

I burst into the noisy street and turn sharply, pushing people out of the way as I dodge around the crowd. I have the advantage since I can literally crawl between peoples' legs if I need to. I head for the subway.

Listening behind me, I hear enraged shouts so I know Hawkeye is still giving chase, but the crowd has slowed him considerably, as it has me, but I am still quicker. I make it to the building and burst in. The next train should be here any minute and I break into a sprint, heading for it. I hear Hawkeye behind me again, but don't turn. I dodge to the side and clamber down some stairs before jumping the last few. I don't hear Hawkeye anymore and it worries me, but I don't dwell on it. I see the train pulling up and I sprint. It's a long shot. If I do make it, then there is always the possibility he will as well, and then we will be stuck on the same train together and the chase will definitely be over, but that is a risk I need to take. The train screeches to a stop and I'm almost there! The doors slide open and people start piling in.

Just when I think I've made it, that I'm so close he can't catch me, an arm clamps around my waist. It digs into my hip bones, grinding me to a halt. Another hand grabs my wrist while the arm around my waist lets go. The minute I'm free, I twist around to face him, but he has twisted my wrist in a way that doesn't hurt unless I struggle. A hot pain shoots up my arm and my brow puckers in pain. I let out a hoarse whimper and use my other hand to grasp his wrist that is holding mine in an attempt to ease the pain, but his muscles are iron bands under my hands. I'm twisted in an uncomfortable angle where my wrist is facing up behind me and my other hand is gripping his wrist as I try to wriggle to relieve as much as the strain as possible, but not stop struggling.

"Doesn't feel good, does it?" he half growls half chuckles in my ear. I grit my teeth to bite back a cry of pain that shoots like a white hot rod through my wrist as he wrenches past its point by just a few degrees. "Quit wriggling so much and it won't hurt. Now, why were you running?"

I speak through still gritted teeth as I try to shrug as nonchalantly as I can in my awkward position. "The answer is obvious, you were chasing me."

"That doesn't mean I wanted to hurt you," he points out.

I eye the train that is still being boarded, "I've found, at least in my experience, that it's better never to find out."

"Really, and what else have you found in your experience?"

I freeze. It hits me all of a sudden. I have to be extremely careful with what I let out. He is evaluating me even as I think this. Who knows what he has picked up; he has already figured out I have a past and I can't let him know any more.

"That is none of your concern what-so-ever. Now if you'll just let me go—"

"Not so fast," he hisses with a small wrench at my wrist, "I've chased you all this way and I won't let you get away now." His bitter laugh grates in my ear. "Though I must say, you have talent. No one has eluded me this long before. I could've burst in on you last night, but I didn't think that would make a good first impression."

"Thank you for the first part, I guess, and about the second, you haven't made a very good impression anyways."

"I saved your life—"

"Yes, but what for? Let me guess, I have something you want. Well why don't you tell me what it is so we can both go on our merry way?"

"I don't think you see to understand, I need you, and I'm not leaving without you."

I literally feel like puking now. This sadistic, lowlife now wants me for some evil plot of his? But that doesn't fit in with what I know before. He seemed to be saving the world with the Avengers only two weeks ago. Does the organization need me now? What is going on? Although, I would rather be alive and confused than dead and enlightened.

I pull myself together and shake my head a little to clear it. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm about to miss a train."

"You're not going anywhere. What are you going to do, scream?

"I work with what I've got," I spit out before leaping into action. Instead of pulling away like the probably expected, I throw myself backwards so my back is against his chest and I duck my head under his arm, fitting myself between it and his chest, making it look like he is pinning my waist. I clutch his arm to me, pulling and fake struggling, while really I'm keeping his arm in place.

" _Please! Please! Somebody help me! Rape! Please help me, anybody!_ " I scream hysterically as I let sobs rip my chest. I feel Hawkeye's surprise as he tries to jerk away, but I hang grimly on only making it look like he is manhandling me more. People pause what they are doing, so I escalate my screams. Two men come at Hawkeye from behind while other pause in the door of the train, causing it to stay open even though it is warning the passengers of departure. The two men pull on Hawkeye's arms, pulling them apart and thus freeing me. I run away sobbing and mingle with the crowd while I hear a commotion behind me. Quietly, I sneak into the train just as the doors close. I peek out the window and immediately spot Hawkeye's infuriated eyes as he tries to shake the men off for enough time to show them his badge, but I'm already gone.

The train zooms away and I let it take me wherever it wants. I take a seat by the window and lean my head against it, breathing hard from our encounter. I can hardly believe I got away from him. At least I'm alive one more day. I think about heading out of town, but I know that is what they (they being Hawkeye and whoever he is working for) would expect. My best bet is to stay in the busiest city of the United States that I know like the back of my hand and wait it out. I have made an enemy, and a very powerful one at that, but I guess I'll just have to live with it.

It is completely dark outside when I finally exit the train. I push through the over crowded streets and keep my head down. Slowly, the streets get dirtier and dirtier and the apartments a lot less luxurious. I stay in the shadows and keep out of sight of any suspicious looking and probably gang people that walk by. Soon, I come across an abandoned warehouse and enter it. No one, not even the gangs use it. I climb up four flights of stairs to the top level and walk across the dirty floor to the smashed out window. I let the wind whip my cheeks as I look out. I let my eyes flutter shut, enjoying the peace as I cross my arms over my chest against the bitter wind.

"Not a very pretty view," someone commented nonchalantly behind me. My muscles jerk before I can even think. I whirl around and place my hands behind me on the window posts in a brace as I crouch in a defensive position.

"Touchy, touchy," Hawkeye tisks as he leans indifferently against the wall opposite of me.

"How did you find me so quickly?" I snarl.

"I planted a tracker at you in the subway. Though I don't think that trick you pulled back there will help you anymore. Where we are people would be… less than willing to help you than they would me," he says with a smirk. I can tell he is still steaming mad from my stunt. Not that it mattered. I was so stupid not to check for trackers! Stupid, stupid, stupid I harangue myself mentally.

"Well congrats, you found me, not many people have done that. None in fact, or I would be dead by now," I snarl in return.

He shakes his head almost despairingly, "I do not wish to harm you, Keira," he says, emphasizing the name.

I am stunned. I never thought anyone would find my identity. They obviously had extremely smart people at this agency. "How did you find my name?" I demand.

"It took two weeks total, which is longer than anyone else has ever taken, but maybe you could better explain why we found it in the deceased file," he says. I can detect a note of danger in his tone. I know it won't go well for me if I don't tell him what he wants, but that only makes me more determined

"I'm not going to tell you anything," I sneer, "Not now, not ever. Whatever you want me for, it won't work. I won't go! _I won't_! You have no right to burst into my life like this and ruin everything I—"

His laugh breaks through my tirade. "Keira, your life was ruined a long time ago. You are grasping at straws, trying to patch up an old life that is gone beyond recall. You are a thief, a waif off the streets, a fugitive of the law." He has pushed off the wall and is slowly moving towards me like a stealthy cat, his momentum carrying him forward. "And you can never get it back. You are never going to be normal again, but I'm offering you a new start. Come to S.H.I.E.L.D.; we can help you start fresh, get a new life where you actually help people instead of being a criminal running—"

My bitter laugh cuts through his sales act. I relax my defensive position and cross my arms over my chest again. I can feel the sarcastic and resentful expression on my own face as I answer him, "Help people? Since when do big organizations or agencies help people? They only cause hurt to the innocent, to people whose lives were perfect until they messed them up. I have a fine life thank you very much—"

"You know I could arrest you on a daily basis for the stealing you do, I'm also especially sure the New York juvei would love to have you, since you are on the Most Wanted list."

I glare at him and continue, "I was out of the stupid system until you freak shows pulled me back in. You want to know my past? Just look at my records. That's what all government organizations do. They think they know you by looking at a piece of paper that has your name on it. They think they can decide what is best for you, or even how to use you, but do they really?"

"It's because of the foster care system, isn't it?" Hawkeye asks softly. I freeze voluntarily. "It's because of what they did to your life and your family." He moves forwards and crouches down so we are eye level. I uncross my arms and take a step back only to bump into the window. I'm trapped. I couldn't run even if I tried. His words paralyze me. "They took your family away so you thought the best way was to disappear. Perhaps you thought about suicide, but you knew that would get you nowhere, so you decided to outsmart them, to cheat the system. Well, you're back inside it now. You're what, fifteen? The minute they learn about you, you're going straight to juvei and then back to the foster homes…"

He trailed off, his eyes telling me everything. "Unless I do what you want," I finish in a whisper. He doesn't reply, but I know the answer. Instead, he watches me carefully to see my reaction. At first panic sweeps through my features. I know I won't last long in those foster homes, let alone juvei . Who would want a seriously messed up teenager anyways? No one ever wanted me. Not my dad, not even my mom… at least, not at first.

Determination replaces my previous panic. I won't go back, ever! I know I don't stand a fly's chance of beating this guy in a fight, but if I can get away than maybe I can disappear again.

I lunge sideways to get away from him, but he is quicker. He lunges with me as if he were expecting that move, which he probably was. In the corner of my eye I see his fist coming like a freight train towards my head. I duck in the nick of time, but just barely. He is fast, really fast. I don't even see his next fist coming but it slams into my abdomen. I can tell he doesn't use full force, but I hear a crunch as my ribs give way to his fist. I double over his fist and arm, coughing and sputtering in pain. He doesn't move, but lets me stay there and I am in no position to move anyways. Finally, his pushes me up and backwards. I stumble and he follows. I turn wildly and try to run, but instead I'm confronted with the open window. I turn again only to fine him coming resolutely at me. I realize it's his intention to get me out the window. What does he want to do, kill me? I lunge forward in one last desperate attempt to get away, but his hand encases my wrist and he jerks me back in such a hard and fast motion I can't hold back the cry as something (probably a bone tip) tears at my insides. I just hope I don't get internal bleeding.

He pulls me to the window. I strain backwards the whole way, but my lips are in a tight line. No matter what he does to me, I won't let him get one word out of me.

In a movement so fast I don't even see it coming, he whirls around and yanks me forward. I stumble and my shins hit the base of the window as I pitch forward. An involuntary scream rips itself from my throat as I feel myself plummeting.

Suddenly, I'm jerked to a stop and I feel my world spin around as I'm set facing upwards again. I open my eyes and find myself dangling over the alley out of the window the Hawkeye holding onto the collar of my army jacket. With a snarl, I latch into his wrist with both my hands. If he lets me go, he's coming with me.

"Have you rethought my offer?" he asks in a teasing tone.

"No!" I spit out.

"You really have no other choice," he reasons.

"Yes I do! I'll just hang here until you drop me, and if you do than I'll pull you with me and if you don't, then I'll sneak away like I always do."

His expression softens just the littlest bit, "I admire your courage. That is why I chose you. Not many people have it, and when I see talent I don't let it go to waste."

"Talent? Talent for what?" I ask, for the first time a little fear tints my tone.

"Talent to be an agent, Keira. You have talent, and lots of it, and I won't let it all go to waste."

I feel nauseous. This is way worse than I thought. "But—but I can't kill people! I couldn't do it!"

"It's no different than those aliens you shot," he points out.

"Yes it is! It's very much different! I would never kill a human being. I don't even know how to fight!"

"There is no difference between those monsters you killed and the ones you would help take down. They are monsters and the world is better without them.—"

"There is always a fine line, and big agencies seem to always step over it. What might be considered a threat to them might be a person who is scared and has no idea what is going on. But what does the agency do? Send orders to have them terminated. It's always the same."

"I used to think that way too, Keira. I used to think that I was better off on my own, but it's not true."

I realize there is no way I'm going to convince him otherwise, so I stop trying. "I won't go Hawkeye, ever," I whisper fiercely.

I see his eyes harden and I know he won't let me go. To my surprise, he starts to draw me back in to the building. It is then that I realize how strong he must be in order to be able to hold me out over the alley that long.

All my thoughts are cut off when his fist slams into my nose. I hear a sickening crunch and his grip on my collar releases. I slump to the floor, blackness overtaking my vision and the last thing I hear is, "S.H.I.E.L.D., I need an extraction carrier immediately."


	5. You Will Never Take Me Alive

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I stand in the corner of the hospital room, watching the rush of activity. It isn't the first time, nor the last I suspect, that nurses and doctors will be in a flurry over my day's work. No one has noticed me enough to give me crap about being here and the ones that have noticed don't give a damn. Being a field agent/assassin does give you special privileges.

From the conversation I'm picking up, she has a broken nose, her burn, and one broken rib. Everything _should_ be fine if she is careful, but if not, she would be in danger of puncturing her lung. But something else intrigues me. She seems to have some sort of old injury in her knee that they found through CAT-scans and x-rays. She apparently took a tumble at one point and tore her A.C.L, M.C.L, and cleanly broke her tibia. It seemingly wasn't treated (understandably since this happened after she "died") so the muscles were still healing as much as possible, but the bone had already healed wrong. It had not been set correctly, thus the wrong healing.

On impulse, I turn heel and leave the room with Keira knocked out and covered in tubes and wires and doctors. I head back to my cell like quarters through the maze of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier. I smile a little grimly to myself, _at least Keira can't escape THIS facility if she tries_.

I enter my room and grab the file sitting on the dresser. It's Keira's file. I flip it open, looking for any clues to the injury. I scan over school, she got straight A's even when she was young. That catches my eye as well. She was homeschooled and she skipped a grade, obviously smart. Then I look to extracurricular activities. She is apparently very musical. She took vocals, piano, violin, and flute, and was always the best at each one. She danced as well. I thought over, no, no that wouldn't give such a big injury, so I keep reading.

 _Aha! Here it is!_ I think. She did gymnastics since age three. She must have kept going with it even after her alleged "death." From the information here she was obviously one of the best, as she was in everything. It looked like a bright future.

Not knowing is what peeves me. I know her actions, but I don't know her motives, which are even more important than the actions themselves. I remember her words earlier _, "They think they know you by looking at a piece of paper that has your name on it."_

The woman's got a point.

"Deep in thought Barton?" a feminine voice slices through my thoughts. "You didn't even hear me walk in."

My head jerks up and I see Natasha leaning against my doorpost. A wry smile tugs at my lips. "I got a lot on my mind."

"So I heard. Word is around here you took a girl under your wing. Everyone knows it was you because she came completely bashed up."

Another wry grin appears. Natasha had been on a mission for the past month or so, explaining her absence. She never stopped working, not even after she saved the world. Personally, I think, she did it to pay her debt to S.H.I.E.L.D. (and me), but I also think she had paid it a long time ago.

"The kid's got talent. If we can get her on board is a whole other matter," I muttered, running my hands through my hair frustrated.

Natasha takes a seat next to me and pulls the file from my hands. Her hazel eyes dart over it as she takes it all in. I know what she is doing without having to ask. She is taking in all the facts and turning them over in her head, reconstructing this girl's whole life from the moment she was born. Natasha is using her interrogation skills to get inside the girl's head and understand what happened to her.

"She is an overachiever. She got straight A's and was skipped ahead of her grade, not to mention she was homeschooled and all testing scores show how much smarter those are. Didn't have any criminal record, not even so much as a mark at school. This is a completely perfect record. It says here she was aspiring to be a Marine, but she loves dance, art, and music as well. She had a perfect record, but now she is on the Most Wanted list. She threw herself into her sport, gymnastics, yet she developed all parts of her life. For one semester it says she wanted to be a Marine, and then the next it says she wanted to be an actress, and then it flips again. This girl is a living contradiction. She's at war with herself. It almost seems—"

Natasha pauses and does a double take at the page she flipped to. I wait, but when she doesn't make any effort to move, I speak. "Hey Nat, what's up?"

She looked up and pointed to the page. I look over her shoulder and see it is medical records. "Did you know she was the subject of a failed abortion procedure?"

"What? How did I miss that?"

"Clint, you were never the best with Intel you know," she remarks dryly. Before I could make some snide remark she continues. "That would explain it though. She doesn't feel like she has a place in the world. She's always shifting, yet she wants to settle down and live a normal life. She wants to feel accepted and feels that this will happen if she applies herself to everything and anything, and then by becoming the best at that. She wants to fit in with society, but she does not want to lose her individuality."

"So basically you are telling me that she wasn't hugged enough as a kid?" I ask sarcastically. Natasha looks at me out of the corner of her eye with the classic Black Widow look. I smirk in response. She does seem to hit the nail on the head though because now all the puzzles pieces fall into place. Keira no longer seems to be such a mystery under this light. Natasha raises her eyes to mine and in a split second we know what the other is thinking and we jump up at the same time without another word.

We both walk through all the corridors until we get to Keira's hospital room. We enter without bothering to knock or check if there are doctors busy inside. We walk in and the room is completely silent save for the beep, beep of the heart monitor and Keira's steady breathing. We both pause in the doorway. Keira is still out, but asleep she looks so much more vulnerable. Her brunette hair is scattered about the pillow like a dark cloud, her ivory skin is intensified in its paleness by the starkness of the room while the dark circles under her eyes look like bruises in the unforgiving light.

Natasha crosses her hands over her chest and plants her feet a little apart. "You've got to be kidding Barton."

I swing around defensively, "What?"

"She's a complete kid! What were you thinking?" Natasha hisses.

"You, of all people Nat, should know that appearances can be _deceiving_ ," I replied with a slight grin.

"In all my covers and missions, all my aliases had one thing in common. They all had the Black Widow bad ass. This girl," she waves to Keira, "looks and probably is innocent enough to charm the birds right out of the trees. Does she even know how to fight?"

I let my silence speak for me. I cross my hands over my chest, staring at her with hard eyes. She literally throws her hands in the air, shaking her red curls with a classic eye roll before walking to Keira's bedside.

Nat looks down at Keira, studying her thoroughly. Gingerly, Nat picks up Keira's fingers and turns them over, studying them from all angles before speaking up.

"Her index, middle finger, and ring finger were all broken, approximately at the same time about two years ago. She has old calluses. They haven't been up to the same beating they were a while ago, but they were so used that they still haven't fully gone away. That must have been when she stopped her sport." Nat dropped Keira's hand back down on the bed. A look of slight pity crosses her face as she stands there, looking down at the kid. I feel pity too, but after all, I did bring her to a better place. Keira was on the streets. She was always in danger. Here, she is safe from that kind of harm at least.

I step into the shadows of the room and both of is wait patiently, waiting for the kid to wake up.

* * *

 

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I'm knocked out again. I hate this feeling. I don't know what anyone is doing to my body, and it oppresses me. I fight with all my will against it, trying to rise from the dark oblivion, but I will not come to the surface until the drugs decide my time down here is done, so I wait in what seems to be no time.

Finally, as before, my senses gradually return. I register pain on all parts of my body. Slowly, my eyes flicker open. I find myself staring at a stark, white room and a woman with striking red, curly short hair and dramatic features. I blink a couple of times and stare blankly at her. She is watching me with a calculating look, as if waiting for me to realize something and waiting to see what my reaction is. I'm about to open my mouth and croak out something about water, when it hits me.

Hawkeye found me.

_Oh shit!_

I jump into action before even realizing it. Where has he brought me? What am I doing here? I need to get out!

I feel my muscle jerk me upright and they all scream in pain. The woman lunges at me, but I twist away and fall off the bed with a painful oooff. I push off my hands and onto my knees. The bed is separating the woman and me, but I feel, or rather sense, something to my back. I jump up and swing around to find myself face to face with Hawkeye who is sauntering out of the shadows with the most infuriating smirk on his face. I let out a hoarse shriek that has irony mixed with irritation and fear somewhere inside of it.

I'm tired. _So_ tired. I know that even if I do get it out of this hell hole room than I'm probably in a secure location that I wouldn't make it ten steps out of. I'll die trying to get out of here anyways, so why not grasp at straws in the process? I fully intend on not living through this, unless the most remote chance comes along, but I doubt it. My limbs feel like lead, but I react like lightening. His hand shoots out to encase my wrist, but I jump backwards, tripping over my own feet in the process. I fall flat on my butt, wincing as I can imagine the bruise forming on my tailbone. The woman attacks me as she swings around the bed. I'm cornered. Hawkeye is on my left and this woman is coming at me on my right. I know I stand very little, ok NO chance against either one, but I am as good as gone with both of them on me. Also, that does not give me the chance to achieve my plan of suicide. My eyes dart around and I see a gap. It is so slim that I probably won't make it, but it's worth a shot. I act as if to lunge at the woman and I see her brace herself, but at the last second I switch directions and roll to the side, lashing out with my foot as I do so. I catch her heavily in the ankle. My ears have the satisfaction of hearing her grunt in pain, but she doesn't fall. She does, however, pause giving me enough time to spring to my feet and dash for the door. Hawkeye is still on the other side of the bed and the woman is in hot pursuit. Just as I'm about to dash by the counter, a syringe sitting on it catches my eye.

Perfect.

My fingers close around it as I spring past, not pausing a moment. I'm not even sure if the two assassins behind me saw the movement. _Don't get cocky Keira, keep a cool head. This is far from over. It's safest to assume they did see and they know your next move. It is safest to be unpredictable,_ I think to myself. I hope that if they did see the quick flitch, they label it as a probable weapon, which it also is, but not a suicide tool. I yank open the door and just slide out as the woman's hand grasps at my hospital gown.

I find myself in a hallway with about five people up and down it. Not a lot, but this doesn't seem to be the most populated area. I'm betting that this place is teeming with people, or enemies as I should call them. I take off to my right, my bare feet pounding on the tile. I hear shouts as the two assassins take off after me. The people in the hallway look at us with mild surprise, but none make to snatch me, yet. I'm sure they will as soon as they grasp the situation. I know for a fact that I can't out run Hawkeye, last time it only worked because of my agility, and I have no idea about the woman, but I'm betting that in my prime I could at keep pace with her, if not strain her the tiniest bit, but I'm far from my prime. I see a corridor on my left, and I switch gears, digging my heels in and switching directions, scrabbling at the wall for support. I gain my footing and take off again.

Suddenly, something just trips my back foot and I go plummeting on the hard floor. I struggle to rise, but something, I'm guessing a fist, hits me in across the face. I pull myself up, and gather my last bit of ebbing strength and slash the syringe at the artery in my leg. Something grabs my wrist, and I fight it with sobs ripping themselves from my throat. I feel myself sinking back into oblivion and the last thing I hear is the woman panting and saying, "Barton, I will never, ever doubt you again."

I can just imagine Hawkeye's, or Barton's, smug smile as I black out.


	6. A Waiting Game

Oblivion, _again_. If this is going to become a regular thing with me, I might go insane. This oblivion is worse though. I can feel whatever they are doing to me, and I know I don't like it. I start to resurface and find myself staring at the blinding, sterile, hospital lights above me. From the hard slab of steel that I'm lying on, I know that I'm on the operating table. I probably screwed up some injury again with my outburst, but I pray that they can't save me. This is oddly familiar. The last time I was on an operating table…

 _Don't go there Keira_ , I warn myself.

They notice that I'm awake and I feel some cold liquid being shot into my arm while they speak supposedly soothing words that make no sense. Of course I'm not ok, like they keep saying. I'm on a damn operating table for crying out loud! And I'm not stupid either. They probably think I'm mentally disoriented (a nice way to say crazy) and suicidal, but I don't care. Maybe, if I act crazy enough, they'll think I'm too hopeless for any job they had in mind, especially an assassin.

I keep resurfacing about five times, each time screaming at the top of my lunges in pain. Whatever they are doing hurts like hell all over my body. I feel like all my nerves are in a searing fire. I scream, even when I'm unconscious. I know because even in the darkness that overcomes me, the only sound is that of my own anguish.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the pain eases completely, leaving calm after the storm in its wake. I finally slip away and lose myself in the drugs.

Once again, I sense the all too familiar feeling of resurfacing from the drugs. My senses return and I slowly allow my eyes to flicker open. I know where I am this time and am not nearly as disoriented, though I feel remarkably tired. I'm not ready to face my fate just yet.

 _Just a little bit longer, please! Just a little longer_ , I beg in my mind to no one in particular. I feel, or rather a sense, someone staring at me, forcing me to reluctantly open my eyes, which I shut again almost immediately with a groan. Everything in my body hurts excruciatingly.

"Kid, you're going to be ok," a voice says next to me. I don't even have to think before knowing who it is. It's that woman from earlier.

My eyes fly open and I jerk forward, trying to get away like last time, this time it turns out a lot more painful. I band across my chest jolts me to a painful stop and I fall back, groaning. I just lie there, trying to get my breath back through my constricted lungs and fighting off the tears that swell in my eye from the pain in my abdomen. I don't remember it last time I woke up officially, so maybe that was what they were working on. Either way, all I know is it hurts like hell.

I instinctively curl up on myself to relive the pain, but I find something resisting at my ankles. Making the huge effort of raising my head, I check to see what is restraining me and find myself shackled to a hospital bed. I blink, trying to blink this situation away, but it stays. I must look pretty comical just staring and blinking, but I don't see anything funny about it. I just stare dumbfounded. Restraint bands are around my ankles, right below my chest, and on my wrists. I'm in a skimpy hospital gown that makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. I don't like it one bit.

Then my instincts kick in.

I pull everything in, making a desperate attempt to get out of my bonds. I can feel the panic well in my throat that is a shriek, making its way from my chest to my throat and slowly to my vocal cords. I try to suppress it, but I know the longer I try to bigger it gets. I can feel it turning into a scream.

The heart monitor beeps erratically, showing the racing pace of my heart as it spikes in sheer panic. I struggle, yank, and wrench viciously at my bonds causing every wound I have to scream in objection.

The woman next to me leans forward and places a decisive hand on my forearm. I freeze, pulling as far away from her as I can and staring into her calm, greenish hazel eyes with my own panic stricken ones. I recoil at her touch and yank my arm as far away as the bonds allow, trying to gathering my knees up as well and lean as far away as the bond around my ribs will permit as well.

"Keira, we aren't here to hurt you," she says reasonably. I don't relax one bit. Words don't fool me anymore. "Relax, no one is going to hurt you," she tries again. My heart rate doesn't slow down in the slightest. Her tone becomes firmer, "Keira, if you don't calm down I'll have to call the nurses back in. They _will_ sedate you."

If anything, that is probably the only thing that would calm me down currently. At least this woman doesn't spend too much time on the wishy-washy 'trust us' stuff. I stiffly relax (if that makes sense) and she withdraws her arm. I stare at her in the corner of my eye warily.

"You really expect me to believe you when you say they won't hurt me? That's all they've been doing since I got here," I snort.

"Yeah, well that is mostly your fault," she counters. I smirk slightly in agreement. It's true. If I hadn't run from Barton than he would most likely have not broken my nose, if I hadn't tried to get away and kill myself than I most likely would not have reopened some injury and ended up in handcuffs.

"Yeah, well… You would've done the same thing," I say with a nonchalant shrug. A grim smile tugs at her lips.

"Would I really? It doesn't seem like the best decision from watching you."

"You would do it because there is nothing else you can do," I respond with more gravity, meeting her eyes boldly. She goes quiet and I let myself show a small smug smile of victory. I turn my attention back to my bonds, studying them and trying to figure out how to get out of them. They are simply buckles that go around my wrists and are padded so they don't chafe. I twist my fingers at an odd angle, trying to reach the buckle. Luckily, my fingers are dexterous and I'm just able to touch the buckle, but that is it. The woman is watching my attempts and doing nothing to stop, or help, me.

"So what's wrong with me?" I ask indifferently as I proceed with my doings.

"Of course, there was the burn on your leg. Then Barton broke your nose and a rib. It wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't started running. They weren't able to set it by that time, so you're movement caused your lung to nearly collapse. Luckily I knocked you out in time. You came dangerously close though," she warns. I don't meet her eyes and continue with my efforts to unbuckle myself. I wince slightly as I move at an odd angle to get a chance at a better grip. I know she is waiting for an answer.

"Yeah well, I wish I had only been so lucky," I mumble, half hoping she wouldn't hear. Of course life wouldn't be that convenient. A voice slices like ice down my spine. It takes the slightest moment to realize it isn't the woman's voice. My head jerks up and I see a shadow of a man leaning in a casual position in the corner of the room.

"Is our company so repulsive that you would kill yourself, Keira?" Barton asks. I feel my rigid muscles tense beyond belief as he steps out of the shadows and closer to me. He makes his way to my bedside with that sure stride of his. I don't turn to look at him, but stare straight ahead, my chest heaving, jaw flexed, and restraints creaking as I throw all my strength into breaking them but not making any pronounced movements as I do it. In the corner of my eye I see him smirk and I feel my blood boil.

Then, he actually has the audacity to sit next to me.

 _Bastard! You'll be dead as soon as I get out of these restraints,_ I hiss at him in my mind.

The bed dips under his weight and my eyes widen a little in something mixed between fear and anger, more intense than anger, it is closer to hate.

"Go ahead, I'd like to hear what you think of me," he laughs.

"I'm not even giving you the crap of thinking about you," I hiss.

"I can just hear the cussing out you're giving me in your head," he laughs again.

"Screw you Barton! What do you want from me?" I almost shout.

"I thought I made that quite clear," he responds, his former joking mood completely gone. Instead, a cold, stone faced man who gives me shivers and is my capture stands in his place. For once, I find no words and sit speechless, staring into his eyes. I've had years of practice at covering my emotions, so I mask my fear in my face, but I know that if he looks deep enough into my eyes he will see it. I cannot look away though. If I do, it would be a sure sign to anyone of what my emotions are.

Suddenly, his bristling demeanor relaxes and his trademark smirk returns to his face. I force myself to jerkily relax as well. I honestly don't know what happens next. Maybe they'll torture me, or maybe they'll abandon me, torturing me indirectly with the denial of food and water and medical treatment.

 _Just let them try!_ I shouted in my head. _I would never accept treatment from these scumbags._

I decide to just come out with it and ask. "So Barton, what happens next?"

"Next I'm supposed to convince you to work for us by means of conversation," he responds like he's reading off a manual.

"Not by means of torture?" I mumble.

"Not yet," he says with a chilling smile. I fall quiet, waiting for him to start talking, but he doesn't. I turn my head away, staring fixedly at the floor. Still nothing. The silence intensifies, becoming so oppressive I can't handle it anymore. I snap my head up and find Barton still staring at me with an evaluating look.

"Why aren't you talking?" I accuse.

"Because you already know what I'll say and it won't work," he replies, his face not unchanging.

"So like I said, what happens now?" I press.

He stood up and my eyes followed him. He paused, staring down at me. "Now we move to step two."

He headed for the door and the woman, who I had completely forgotten about, followed him.

"What is step two?" I yelled after them. Barton paused in the doorway.

"We wait."

And then he walked out and the door shut with a despondent click. I slump down, staring at the buckles around my body.


	7. Breaking Through

I've spent weeks in this stupid hospital room. Hawkeye wasn't kidding when he meant to wait. I don't know if he means to wait until I break, or until he thinks I'm close enough that he can push me over the edge. At first I was sure I could wait it out, I mean, I was willing to kill myself, this should be a piece of cake right? But that's just the thing, I was willing to take action, that's what I'm built for, but waiting is killing me slowly and painfully.

I'm also healing, supposedly. It's been about six weeks in here. The only contact with the outside world that I get is when the nurses and docs come in for checkups and food. My hospital room has no windows with only a tiny side door to a bathroom. Other than the medical visits and the dialing dropping off of my rations and injections of medication, I'm left completely to my own devices. I feel like a lab rat. I try talking to the nurses, but they must be forbidden from talking to me because they never answer and the doctors only ask questions about how I feel in pain level.

After about two days of the restraints, I had finally snuck out of them, but my fingers were bloody and my wrists were bruised. The nurses bandaged them, but did nothing to put me back into the restraints. I wandered around the room, thankful to be able to walk. I had inspected every nook and cranny, trying to find a way out, but nothing came. The room had no windows and I knew trying to burrow out would be useless. That only worked in dungeons. I thought about attacking the nurses when they came since I knew their schedule, but dismissed the thought knowing that I was too weak until fully healed.

The second thing I did was disable the security cameras. Of course, as soon as they were down a team of agents came in, knocked me out, fixed the cameras, put me back in restraints, and left.

As soon as I woke up, I worked on the bonds, getting out of them in only an hour that time. Of course, I realized that I was being monitored for potential suicide attempts most likely, so I decided to test my theory. There was literally nothing in the room to use, so I went into the bathroom, broke the glass mirror with a punch that broke my knuckles and tried to slit my wrists. Just as I'd predicted, a team of agents came in, knocked me out, took all the glass away along with anything else they thought was breakable and sharp, put me in restraints, and left.

Those restraints were worse. They weren't just the buckles, but those were padded steel ones without as much as a key lock. I spent days trying to get out of them till I broke down screaming and banging my head on the table. Paramedics rushed in as I blacked out and I felt them doing things to me, but I didn't care.

The next few days were hell. I was in and out of consciousness just like before, and when I woke the docs and nurses were all swarming inside my hospital room. Finally though, I fully woke up and only a couple nurses remained. I didn't speak, but they did to me for the first time. They said I was going to be ok and so on and so forth, but I ignored them.

I stopped eating. No matter what they brought me, I would not eat. I just stared straight ahead with glazed eyes. Different docs came, all checking for clues as to my sudden lack of appetite. They put me through x-rays and CAT scans and just about every test on the universe, but nothing worked. I was then plugged into an IV and fed through my arm, but it take more than a needle pumping protein into one's blood system to keep them alive. I gave up. I wouldn't sleep, eat, or respond to anyone.

That is, until Barton came. I think over that visit, turning it over in my mind, dissecting it, studying it, analyzing it from every possible angle.

_"I hear you've been busy Keira," he remarked, sitting on a chair next to my bed and crossing his arms over his chest, leaning and tipping the chair backwards. He studies me for a moment, and I wait for his appraisal even though I could care less. For some reason, all the fear of him has vanished. "You look like hell," he commented finally._

_"I wouldn't know, they took away my mirror," I mumbled, my lips twitching, threatening to spread in a bitter smile._

_"How about that?" he asked in mock sincerity and horror._

_"Don't over play it Barton," I snapped, keeping my eyes down._

_He just laughed and leaned forward, letting his chair fall back to the floor. "Look at me Keira," he said softly. I didn't respond. It's my specialty. He is the only person that has gotten the most out of me. "Keira," he said, his voice sharper, "look at me, now!"_

_With a sigh, I resignedly turned my eyes towards him and found him leaning forward intently, demanding my attention. "Yes?" I asked, my voice hoarse from both screaming and disuse._

_He just studied my face for a moment before leaning back again and running his fingers through his hair in a jerky, frustrated motion. "Hell Keira, I didn't mean for this to get so big," he said with almost a worried tone._

_I jerked sharply towards him. I'm sorry, what? Did I just hear him right?_

_"What do you mean, Barton?" I asked more sharply than I intended to._

_"I mean I knew you were stubborn, but I honestly didn't think you would give up."_

_"Give up on what?" but I already know the answer._

_"ON LIFE, Keira!" He almost shouted._

_"I told you I would," I slurred, turning my dull eyes to the floor again._

_"Yeah, well, you should know how many times I've heard that and how many times people actually kept their word," he said with a mirthless huff of laughter as he stood up and faced away from me._

_"Really? How many?" I slurred again, my voice dull and lifeless with drugs, painkillers, and medications._

_"None," he said with another mirthless laugh. "I've never seen anyone have so much control over their self. It is human nature to fight for life, and from what I've seen, it is nearly impossible to have so much control that you can restrain from keeping yourselves alive. It's like trying to hold your breath till you die. Nearly impossible."_

_"Could you do it?" I questioned. I truly was curious._

_"I don't know. I suppose if it came down to it, yes. But only if I was… if I had absolutely no choice," he spoke that last part as if he was talking to himself._

_"Are you saying I have a choice?" I asked mockingly with a bitter tone._

_He swung around to me, his eyes determined, "Yes!"_

_"What? Barton! I was kidding," I jumped._

_"And I wasn't. I would kill myself if I didn't have any other choice, but if I was in your position I wouldn't. Keira, you're throwing your life away too quickly! You're just acting out of spite. You don't even fully understand what we're offering you," he ground out, frustration sharpening his voice._

_I didn't argue but kept a sullen silence. I'd found that that is the best way to contradict someone. If you start an argument, it only shows that you are trying to convince yourself, especially if you know you will never convince them. He couldn't understand. He wouldn't understand, and I sure as heck wasn't going to tell him anything. "Look Barton," I started with a sigh, "I told you I wasn't going to become part of your stupid organization. I got out of the system for a reason and you dragged me back into it. You said you would send me to juvei if I didn't comply, well I'm sure as hell not complying, so why am I not in behind bars? Let me guess, I know too much. Since you dragged me here you can't get rid of me, thus you need me to join you. That leaves only one option," I turned my eyes resolutely forward, "Death."_

_"Jesus Keira! I brought you here to offer you a new life and it all blows up in my face," he spat. "If I was—"_

_"Why did you bring me here? I fulfill you quota for the month? I didn't ask to come! I never—"_

_"You're just being stubborn," he said softly. I stopped, reluctantly listening to his glib words. "Why not give it a try? It can't be much worse than what you were doing before, could it?" he reasoned. I turned away angry with myself for even considering his words, for that I was, and very seriously. They made perfect sense, and that scared me. With four weeks to let my temper cool off (I have all the tick marks scratched on the wall, despite my restraints. I was close enough to the wall to use my toenail. It makes me look like I'm in a lunatic asylum), I feel very inclined to follow his suggestions. What am I going to do? Sit here till I rot of old age? Until after Barton dies? For sixty years? Even after the organization is shut down? Ha, like that would ever happen. But I realize that they are keeping me alive._

_Then I think why I have been so stubborn and my face hardens. I know Barton must have seen the look of contemplation of my face, because when my own face hardens back into its usual mask, I see his expression visibly fall into its own stubborn mask again._

_"Barton, I don't want to be part of an agency. I don't want to be a pawn. I don't want to be used and tossed aside like an old shoe. I don't want to be made to do things I'll regret," I nearly whispered, repeating the same words I have since I met him._

_"It's about the foster system, I know it is" Barton answered, his blue eyes boring intensely into mine as his were narrowed slightly in concentration._

_"This whole thing is being recorded. It could be being broadcasted in front of this whole facility and on CNN news for all I know," I snorted, clearly showing I wasn't going to talk._

_He moved with swiftness that was hard for the eye to follow. He whipped a knife out of his belt and without even so much as pausing for a moment, threw it at the security camera, effectively slicing through the wire and cutting the feed._

_He then placed a hand up to his ear, obviously pressing some com line, "Stand down, we're good."_

_"Now," he said, turning to me, resuming his seat and leaning intensely towards me, "You know we aren't being watched, so go ahead."_

_"I'm not telling you crap!" I spat, my contempt displayed._

_"I thought your misgivings were that this conversation wouldn't be private," he said with mild surprise that I knew was fake._

_"I said that for all I knew it wouldn't be private," I countered._

_"Think over this carefully, Keira. Now is possibly the first and last time you'll have this opportunity," he warns._

_"To do what? To spill my life out into your waiting hands? I don't think so," I scorned._

_"This is practically immunity. Anything you say now will not be held against you since—"_

_"Meaning you won't send me to juvie? Ha! That was an empty threat from the beginning, Barton," I said contemptuously. "Anyways, you know enough about me, let's see what your guess is," I challenged._

_"Fine, you were born and raised in Kansas. You were homeschooled, got straight A's, did dance, piano, flute, voice, and gymnastics. You excelled in each one beyond expectations. You were skipped ahead in school, showing how dedicated you were. You had a perfect record, not a single mark off. Your family life, however," here he grins ruefully, "was a completely different story. Your mother had a one-night-stand. She didn't even know the guy. You were born and your father, of course, was gone after the one night. Your mother figured a way to get a degree and have a kid and was able to provide for both of you."_

_He paused and leaned forward, "now we get to the juicy stuff. Your mother had a failed abortion. She tried to abort you, but you survived. She must have realized her mistake of trying to kill her baby and immediately took you in. All those straight A's, all those perfect scores, all those perfect dance routines, all those perfect tumbling passes, all those flawless solos were to make up for what you thought you owed. You wanted to prove that you were worthy to be in the world, whether this was conscious or not is a different matter. You were, and are, a contradiction. You loved hard core sports, yet enjoyed the fine arts. You wanted to be an artist, than a Marine. You had a flawless school record, let alone criminal record, but now you are on the Most Wanted list for all your theft."_

_"Well, after your mother died, the court was NOT going to give you over to your deadbeat father who couldn't even take care of himself, and you knew you couldn't go into foster care, not that I blame you. They tell you that you belong to the state. You are their ward. You feel like you lose your identity. You couldn't let that happen, especially with your past. You ran. You took off, got in touch with some pros by my guess, and faked your death. You were smart though," he added, with a touch of degrading approval, "for being only thirteen years old. After that, you got into crime, and became well versed in the ways of the New York street. But what I've been wondering is how you got that injury," he said, brushing my knee making me repulse back as far back as possible. I knew he meant to do that on purpose, knowing it would only remind me of how vulnerable I was._

_"You're the genius, you figure it out," I snapped. I was angry and scared. It was frightening how much he had found out. All of it was true. Every single detail. His words pulled up images of my past that I would much rather have forgotten. They reminded me of all those nights, huddled in a black alley with a gnawing stomach, then people closing in, the smell of beer…_

_I shook my head to clear the image, gritting my teeth angrily. Barton's calloused hand came down on my forearm. I jerked back, baring my teeth, but part of me was grateful. His warm, rough hand brought me back to the present. I wasn't going to let him see that for worlds though._

_He must have seen the effect his words had on me, and gave me a half-hearted smile that was laced with… empathy. This stopped me in my tracks. He didn't withdraw his hand, and I stopped fighting it. He leaned forward so his intense, blue-green eyes were inches from my face. "Keira, I know. I know what you think of us. I know what it is like to have a history like that. I don't have a fairy tale past either. I used to think exactly like you do, but it's not true. You would be helping people. You would save people from the past you have. Isn't that what you want? My parents were killed, I ran away from the foster care, I know what it is like to believe that big agencies are cruel, but trust me," a grin tugged his lips, "S.H.I.E.L.D. fits none of those quotas."_

_I didn't respond. I was thinking over his words. I was angry. He was purposefully manipulating me, hitting me where it hurts, but I couldn't resist his words. They were like a balm on a burn. I hated it, but its soothing caress was so addicting that I couldn't resist if I tried._

_"What do you want from me?" I asked in a whisper._

_He didn't move away. "Just trust me," he whispered._

_"How can I do that?" I whispered hopelessly. I truly didn't know. It had been forever since I had trusted anyone._

_"Don't think, just do," he responded. I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to push him away (figuratively since I was still in restraints) and trying to block out his demanding eyes, trying to hide from them._

_Finally, I opened them. "I don't trust you. I don't trust anybody. But," I added quickly as his expression darkened, "I will try your way. I don't have much of another choice," I laughed bitterly._

_He straightened, smiling, "good." He rose as if to leave. That was it? What happens next? Where was he going?_

_"Hey!" I called after him. He paused and looked down at me. "What happens next?"_

_"Next, you stop trying to kill yourself and get better," he replied. He hit the button for the nurse who burst in with barely a hesitation causing me to think she had been waiting right outside the door. "Get her out of these restraints, give her some food and as soon as she is nourished enough, get her out of the ICU," he directed._

_The nurse just stared in wonder before nodding wordlessly._

* * *

 

That was about a week ago. I lie on my bed with my knees curled up to my chest. I'm out of the ICU, just like Barton requested, and it is an immense relief. I've been eating everything they give me and the doctors are baffled. Of course, my little talk with Barton was off the record, but I'll bet all my money that they would give anything to hear what went on inside that room. I still don't trust Barton, or anyone here at S.H.I.E.L.D., and yes, my pride is still nagging at me, accusing me of giving in and being weak, but I drown it out with the voice of reason. Ok, I'm starting to see that maybe I did act a little immaturely, running from Clint like that, but in my own defense, how I was I supposed to know that he wasn't going to hurt me? Sure, I know what you're going to say... "He was fighting with the AVENGERS! How could he be a villain?" "He said he wasn't trying to hurt you. You could've stayed just long enough to see if he was telling the truth or not."

And yes, all those are valid arguments, but like I told Hawkeye, I'm _just_ really stupid. But you know what they say, "it's better to be lucky than smart." I'm living proof of the truth of that statement.

I was moved into this room only this morning. I insisted I was able to walk, _not_ be wheeled around on a stretcher, and I put up such a fuss about it that they eventually just let me go in a wheelchair, which was still unacceptable by me, but it was the best compromise I could get.

I found out that those docs were right (imagine that?). I was so weak from those weeks of malnourishment that the ride in the wheelchair to this room drained me. Right now, I lie in the hospital bed, curled up in a protective ball and utterly exhausted. I think over the past. Does this mean that I'm a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. now? No. Definitely and absolutely not, but I've relented just the miniscule bit to trust Barton and see where it take me. Once I'm healed and recuperated I'll see how things play out. Until then, I wait.


	8. Cornered

In the morning, my senses wake me up rather than my inner alarm clock. I feel my eyelids flutter open and I stare lazily, blinking at the ceiling for a moment. That was the best night of sleep I've had in quite a while. Of course, living with one eye over your shoulder doesn't give you much time to rest and I wasn't exactly on vacation in the ICU.

A sound to my right makes me jump sky high. I jerk upright, nearly crashing out of bed, only to fall back into the sheets with a groan of pain. The nurse who was tidying things up around my room is frozen, obviously just as scared of my reaction as I was of her.

"I'm sorry miss!" the nurse exclaims, finally jumping out of her terror stricken trance. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was just cleaning up around here. You're not to move for a while, doctor's orders. I'll go get your breakfast," the nurse hustles out, leaving me in the God forsaken hospital room.

I sit up slowly and gingerly, taking an overall assessment of my condition. My leg still throbs, my ribs and abdomen feel like they are on fire, my head feels like all the freakin' tinkering Christmas elves decided to take up residence in it, all the cuts and bruises (from glass, concrete, so on and so forth) are scabbed over now, and my nose is just a slight throb, but nothing more.

I stretch my arms up, yawning lazily and arching my back, hearing the satisfactory cracks and crunches as I work out all my kinks.

I feel antsy. I need to move. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, swaying them back and forth impatiently. I contemplate getting up, but decide against it since I'm not completely sure my legs would agree to hold my weight.

The nurse strolls back in, balancing a tray with the rations S.H.I.E.L.D. uses. I can't help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. It is a soppy, white, wet mush that has a resemblance to watery oatmeal. I don't even want to know what's inside of it, but my guess is their ultimate combo of minerals, carbs, and proteins needed for the patient. The nurse slides the tray onto my bedside table and is heading out the door when I stop her.

"Excuse me! I was wondering. Would you be able to find my old clothes for me? I don't feel very… comfortable in this hospital gown," I ask her in a tone that sounds more like I'm ordering her than asking.

"I'm sorry, but I must insist that you remain in your current attire for a while longer," she responded like she was talking to a five-year-old. I settle myself down for a long argument.

An hour later, I'm sitting on my bed once again, but this time in comfortable cargo pants and a singlet they were able to dig up for me since they had disposed of my torn up T-shirt. I was relieved to find they had kept my army jacket. It is for sentimental reasons now only, but it used to hold all my tools for thieving. Lock picks, small knives (that I never used to kill anyone with, only to jimmy locks), code crackers, bugs, spy cameras, and hacking devices were all stowed away in the pockets and strips inside of the jacket.

I sit, fiddling with my thumbs and having absolutely nothing to do. I sigh and shift, trying to find some position on this damn hospital bed that is comfortable, but I know it is an itch I can't scratch. I shift uncomfortably again, and then…I just can't take this anymore

I jerk up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to stand up, but right as I do this, the door to my hospital room slides open. I immediately raise my defenses, having been startled. Did they know I was going to move?

 _Don't be ridiculous Keira. Keep it together_ , I caution mentally as I eye the person who steps through the door.

He has smoothed and gelled black hair that looks styled to perfection, showing obvious pride in his work and professionalism he brings to the office. His white lab coat labels him as a doctor and his name tag reads _Richer Harris, psychiatrist._

_What?!_

They have sent a _shrink_ to evaluate me? No way in hell that's going to happen. I calm myself down and continue my diagnosis of the man. His face is sharp with high, defined cheek bones, a big, claw like nose, a large forehead, and almost nonexistent lips. All these would not come across as unhandsome though, if it weren't for his mean, cold, ice blue eyes. I quickly move on from them with a slight shudder. He is tall, about 6'3" and well-built with broad shoulders and chest.

Something else I do not like about him is the domineering presence he brings into the room. _Really Keira, domineering? How was Hawkeye any different?_ I snort mentally, but I know this is different. True, Hawkeye is a smug jerk in my opinion, but he didn't hurt me, at least not purposefully, _kind of_ , but I instinctually feel I can trust him in an odd way, now. This man, however, screams to all my senses to run. _Don't do that Keira; you'll only make yourself look guilty for nothing_. But somehow, I honestly do not want to have a shrink worm all the secrets I have out of me, especially after all I have been through.

The man pauses on the threshold of the room. A sly smirk tugs at his face as he evaluates me, same as I evaluate him.

"Are you finished scrutinizing me, Miss Matheson?" he asks in a deep, frightening voice.

 _You sound like a three year old, stop it Keira!_ I mentally berate.

I decide not to answer him. I don't want to even talk to him. The less he knows, the better. They really need new shrinks here if this is their standard. He is honestly creepy. "I want to speak with Barton, now," I demand bluntly. I'm in no mood for games.

"Ah yes," Harris sighs as he pulls up a chair and takes a seat across from me, much too close for my liking, "the infamous Clint Barton. He was the one who brought you in, wasn't he?"

I don't answer Harris' question, but stare stonily at him. At least he gave me a valuable piece of information. I now know Barton's first name, Clint.

I'm painfully aware of my tight tank top that leaves my white, slim shoulders bare and exposed, only making me feel more vulnerable. My fingers move without my consent and close around the jacket on my left. I pull it on, grasping the hem of the bottom of the sleeves in fists and pulling it even more tightly around my shoulders.

Harris watches this action with unnerving, flickering blue eyes, and then scribbles something down on his clipboard. _You've got to be kidding me._ That action gave something away to him? What did I do? What does he know? _Keep it cool girl, don't let him get to your head._

"So why do you want to see Agent Barton?" he inquires.

"That is none of your business, shrink," I spit. The reason I want Barton is because I seriously do not want to talk to this man. Barton is the only person in this facility that I know, and truth to be told, he has been looking out for me, in a way. At least I have an indirect friend, I hope. Either way, Barton is my best bet.

"Does Agent Barton make you feel safe?" Harris presses. "That would be odd though, considering he used… forceful means to bring you here."

"Force is no stranger to me, shrink," I remark bitterly. I immediately regret it as he starts to scribble down on his clipboard. He angles it up so I cannot read it upside-down which I would normally do. _Screw this man!_

"So you were on the streets, Barton brought you in by force, and then you were suicidal, and yet you trust him now?"

"I never said I trusted him!" I snarl. He writes something down again. This is driving me insane.

"So what happened those ten minutes with Barton that changed your mind about everything?"

So I was right. They are all wondering what happened in that tiny hospital room for those ten minutes that were off record. My eyes flick to the door, hoping for the first time that Barton will come through it, but no such luck. It stays despairingly shut and shows no sign of sliding open for a chance at freedom. Ya, remember how far you got last time Keira? Not a good idea.

"I've already told you I'm not saying anything. I want Barton in here now—"

"What was it like, Keira, out in the streets? Was it hard? Did people abuse you?"

His words bring back memories, memories I would much rather forget. Suddenly, I'm not in the hospital room anymore. I'm thirteen years old again and in a dark alley. It stinks of beer and garbage, and the dark shapes I see are starting to close in. Are they coming after me? No, I know they aren't because I know how this nightmare goes, but I almost wish they were.

I let out a piercing shriek and throw my arms around my head, burying my face in my lap. All I remember from then on is screaming. Screaming for the doctors to get their hands off me, screaming for Barton, and most of all, screaming for help.


	9. Trust

I was on the bridge monitoring potential terrorist threats from the Middle East with Natasha when I got the call. Keira had a relapse. I ran through the corridors, pushing anyone who was stupid enough not to move out of my way. I knew she couldn't have just relapsed without any push and something set her off. I curse myself for not watching her more closely.

I burst into her hospital room to find a sickening sight greet my eyes. Keira is curled in a ball on the floor with about five nurses and two doctors trying to pin her down and knock her out with a syringe, but she is flailing her arms so violently that they are not able to get a clear shot at her vein.

I push the nurses aside and grab Keira's shoulders, holding them down to the cold, white tiles. I can tell from the deranged, glazed look in her eyes that she isn't in the present. She is seeing threats that don't exist.

"Keira! Keira, calm down!" I attempt to grab her attention. She lifts her tear stained face and wide, scared eyes to mine. I see the tracks of tears run down her cheeks and the pure fear in her expression. Her eyes slowly come into focus on my face and her struggling ceases.

"Barton?" she asks uncertainly.

"The one and only, kid," I whisper as I cease to pin her down rather than hold her. She clings to me, burying her face in my Kevlar vest like she did when during the New York invasion. She is oblivious to the outside world as she cries her heart out into my chest. I nod to the nurse with the syringe. Keira doesn't even respond when the nurse grabs her arm and sticks her with the needle.

I grab Keira's chin in-between my thumb and knuckle, focusing her eyes on me. "Listen kid, you're gonna be okay," I see her eyes start to glaze over as she begins to lose consciousness. "Do you trust me?" I ask.

She nods once before slumping unconscious in my arms. I let the docs pull her off me and I slowly stand up, watching them work on her lifeless body. Who knows how many times I've seen Keira knocked out, but this time she looks especially vulnerable. What's wrong with me? I never show emotion, and yet, she has brought more emotion out of me than ever before.

I turn away to leave the room when something catches my eye. I see a shadow of a man in the corner, and immediately I don't like him. Our eyes meet, and a malicious smile creeps over his features. I feel an odd sensation in my stomach. It feels like…  _fear_ , something I haven't experienced in a while. I feel like I know this man, but from where? Immediately I know why Keira had a relapse. The pain of seeing her so vulnerable is still fresh, and the fact that this man caused it makes my anger resurface. I'm about to take a step forward when a hand descends on my shoulder.

"Clint," Natasha says softly, yet forcefully. So much is behind that word. I can tell by her tone of voice. She is telling me to save it, to let it be. I don't even remember her in the room, but she must have followed me here.

Reluctantly, I back away, but not before I get the man's name from his tag. Hey, my code name is Hawkeye, right?

* * *

Later, I am in the computer room again. "Ryan, you are going to do this for me, or…"

The Geek is nervous, as usual. "Barton, I can't just give you access to all the data base of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records!"

"What are you going to do? Go tell Fury again?" I ask threateningly.

"Now wait just a minute," he back peddles nervously as he pushes his glasses further up his nose, "I never said I wasn't going to let you. I just said it might not be a good idea."

"I just need one name. Go ahead and tell Fury, he won't care." It's true. I'm not the best at following orders, but I am one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best assassins, meaning I pretty much have free rein.

"Fine," Ryan swivels in his desk chair, his fingers poised to type over the keys, "what's the name?"

"Richer Harris," I respond. I watch as he types it in rapidly and the computer loads.

"Richer Harris, psychiatric doctor, joined S.H.I.E.L.D. two years ago. Hmm," Ryan squints at the screen.

"What?" I press.

"He is mostly used on prisoners, or suspects we have. He has a knack for getting into peoples' minds, making him one of our lead interrogators—"

"Interrogators?" I ask in astonishment. What was an interrogator doing interviewing Keira? She's not a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D. what-so-ever.

"Ya, he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. after working for the F.B.I. in Special Forces. It says he was trained as an  _agent_ , but then an injury caused him to go into medicine, or psychopathology."

"So he just switched carriers like that? This sounds fishy to me," I murmur quietly. My eyes do a quick scan of the room, assuring me that no one is listening to our conversation, when the slightest sound above me catches my attention. A small smile tugs my lips as I pretended to ignore it.

"Where are the records of his patients?"

Ryan taps a couple buttons and the records appear on the screen. "Nothing unusual about them, just the normal back-from-missions-assessments."

"What about the patients he rejected and accepted?" I question.

"Well, he's taken every patient we've given him," Ryan squints at the screen again, "except for three times." He pulls away uncertainly, "they were all you."

"What?"

"All the times he requested another patient was when you were put on his list," Ryan explains. I feel his owl eyes on me as I scan over the document. Sure enough, the Geek is right.

"What about patients he requested?"

"He never requested a patient… until one last week. Hey, that's the girl you had me trace!"

"Good work," I compliment before turning away to leave.

"No offense, Barton, but investigations aren't really your thing, so why are you taking an interest in this?" Ryan inquires. I swing back around to him.

"What?"

"You're an assassin, not an investigator. Why are you taking an interest in this? Or an even better question, what got you onto this man's scent?"

I pause for a moment before slapping the Geek on the shoulder. "Keep me posted if you come up with anything.

I saunter off, leaving Ryan confused and deprived of an answer. I walk quickly down the halls, very aware of someone following me, not from bellow as would be suspected, but above in the air vent.

I push the doors to the dark storage unit open where much of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s phase two equipment is stored, before quickly shimmying up a pole and leaping over the rail. I feel a slight vibration next to me as someone drops onto the metal catwalk.

"Didn't expect you to pick this place, Barton," Natasha comments.

"Security camera angles allow for us to talk in private, but you know that already." I turn towards her, "thanks for the heads up in the computer room."

She doesn't respond, but a hint of the lopsided tug of lips, which is the closest she gets to a smile, appears. "So, you are suspicious about Harris?"

"Something isn't right, Nat; you have to admit that."

"True, but you wouldn't be taking an interest in it if it weren't for Keira."

"You're point being?"

"You're getting emotionally attached, Clint. Why did you really bring her here?"

I answer her almost before she finishes her sentence. "I already told you why, Tasha. You saw her file, you  _know_  why."

She moves forwards so we are closer. "Yes, yes I know why, and I don't think it's very wise."

"So what would you have me do?" I ask, looking down at her. "I brought Keira here, I put her in danger, and I can't leave her to fend for herself, not when she's this vulnerable."

"That's the point, Clint. Anyone could see how attached you are to her. What makes you think they are actually after her?"

I turn away from her with a scoff sound and grab the railing with both hands so hard that my knuckles turn white. "So what do you suggest? It's not the first time people have been after me."

"You brought her here for one purpose: Clint, to make her a weapon. She won't be vulnerable, or a liability to you, if you make her just that. Teach her everything you know, train her, mentor her, giver her something to strive for, and based on my limited knowledge of her personality, she'll accept the challenge with more than enough will power.

"She isn't fully healed, Nat," I respond, pushing off the railing and facing her with exasperation.

"So? She won't have  _time_  to heal on missions. She's getting antsy, she needs something to do. Right now she's a sitting duck, but she doesn't have to be. Don't worry about the doctor's orders. You can override them and I'm sure she would be more than willing to," Natasha added with a quirked eyebrow.

"So when's the next stop?" I ask. Nat give me her trademark grin.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I sit with a physical therapist who is blabbering on about absolutely nothing, in my opinion at least. Who needs six months of recovery time? And these exercises wouldn't make a fly sweat, let alone make me ready for "training", whatever that is.

I let my mind wander and think back to the events of yesterday. That chilling, son of a bitch hasn't showed up and neither has Barton, the other son of a bitch, but in a very different way. I try to recall exactly what happened as I blacked out, but everything is fuzzy. I remember fighting frantically against the doctors and nurses that rushed into the room, but I also remember them being the shadows and horrors in the alley, not in the hospital room. I remember the hallucinations as if that night was only yesterday, but then I also remember what snapped me out of them, or so I think.

_"Keira! Keira, calm down!" Barton shouts as his rough, but familiar hands pinned me to the stark cold tiles._

_"Barton?" I ask uncertainly. I recognize his hands and his voice, but his face is a blur, save for his demanding blue eyes._

_"The one and only, kid." I feel a prick and the sliding of metal inside skin as they inject some substance into my arm, but Clint is here and he wouldn't let them harm me, right? I feel drowsiness sweep over me, engulfing me like a waved and attaching weights to my eyelids. I'm seconds from going under when he grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. His voice sounds like its miles away and I strain to hear it. "Listen kid, you're gonna be okay. Do you trust me?"_

_Then the blackness takes over_

I come back to the present with a sigh. Did all of that really happen? Or was I just hallucinating, which I very well could have been. Another thing, did I respond to his question? Do I trust him?

_You don't need this now, Keira_  I growl inwardly _. Don't trust anyone, don't let anyone in. No one will look out for you except_ you _. Want to stay alive? Than play it smart and_ don't _trust him_.

_Ya, but what is life worth living if you never live? Living without trust runs you down, it is even more degenerating than trusting anyone. How bad could it be to trust only one person? How bad could it be to just let the walls down once and let one more person in to share all the baggage I carry around?_ I reason back mentally to myself.

"Keira? Are you listening to me?" the therapist asks while waving a hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my inner monologue.

"Yes," I lie glibly. I have absolutely no idea what she's been saying, and I could care less. She starts over again, explaining why I need to keep rested, when to do the exercises, so on and so forth. I tune her out again and resume my former conversation.

_I'm warning you Keira, don't let him get too close. He will hurt you over time. You may think it's crazy now, but you won't when it happens._

_How do I know that? I've never met someone like Barton before. How do I know he will abandon me like…_

_Like you're father?_  I cringe at the words.  _Yesss, yes, just like you're father, that deadbeat who left you for dead when you needed him most, the one that was always in such a drunk stupor that he rarely recognized you. Do you really think… Hawkeye… could replace him?_

_I never said that!_

_But that's what you mean. Don't lie to yourself, you know it is._

_Shut up!_

_You are going to wish you listened to me later—_

Suddenly, the door to my room slides open, jolting me out of my thoughts with a small gasp.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear!_

_Shut up!_

None other than Clint Barton strides through the door.

"Therapy session is over, doc. Override to protocol 114, Director's orders," Barton barks, motioning the doc to the door with a slight tilt of his head. The therapist quickly gathers up all her clipboards before placing sheets with exercises on my bedside table.

"Remember to do these every morning and evening, along with all the stretches I showed you," she reminds sternly. I give her my sweetest smile and nod to appease her before she saunters out of my room. As soon as she is gone, I swat at the pages, scattering them all over the room. I swoop the closest ones up from the ground and crumple them in a fist, throwing them at the trash can with such horrible aim I won't bother telling you how bad it is.

"Had a bad morning?" Barton asks sardonically. I groan in response as I bury my face in my hands. "Did you even listen to anything she said?"

"Why should I? It's not like I'm ever getting out of these stupid rooms!" my shout is muffled by my hands.

"Yes you are, right now. Let's go," Clint motions to the door.

I lift my head up, disbelief written all over my face, "What?"

"Today's your lucky day. Grab your stuff."

"Really?" I gasp.

He rolls his eyes, "No, just kidding. You can stay another six months of recovery in here if you want."

Needing no more invitation, I jump up and brush past him to the open door, "Not a chance, Clint, not a chance."

I can feel his smirk to my back as I walk out into the hallway. I pause, looking left and right, trying to figure out which way to go, when he pushes past me and turns right. I follow mutely, trying to memorize all the twists and turns we take, but soon I'm completely lost.

_Like you would want to go back to your cell? Get real. He's not leading you into a trap or anything_  I think to myself.

Suddenly, without warning, the tunnels break off and we are in a buzzing command center. I freeze momentarily, with panic rising in my chest.

_They are not enemies, Keira. Trust, remember, trust_  I calm myself down.

"You coming?" Barton prompts when he realizes I'm not following. I take a deep breath and a dry gulp before moving out of the door frame and into the room. I stare around me in amazement, taking everything in (and noting where all the exits are, just to be safe).

Men and women in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms are typing on computers, monitoring things I assume are all over the world, but what strikes me is the open window at the very end of the room. Are those…  _clouds_?

I don't realize I'm staring with my mouth open until Barton reaches over and chucks my chin. I jerk away from him, my fist curled in a ball and raised defensively.

"Easy there, no one's going to kill you," Barton smirks.

I choose to ignore his humor. "Are those what I think they are?"

"Maybe; it depends on what you think they are."

"I've been on a…  _airplane_  the past three months?" I ask incredulously.

"No, you've been on a helicarrier, Ms. Matheson," a new voice says behind me. I swing around skittishly, finding a curious sight. A black man in a trench coat with a pistol in a thigh holster (standard S.H.I.E.L.D. gear) and an eye patch is watching me with a calculated look. I return the favor and eye him up warily. I can't make up my mind if I like him or not. My gut tells me he is a "good guy", but my instincts say not to trust him. I think it's the eye patch that is throwing me off…

Finally, he extends his hand to me, "Welcome aboard, officially, Matheson."

I study his hand for a moment, before letting my eyes travel up his arm to his eyes. I search them for any deceit, any lies, any traps, but all I see is the same calculating gaze I'm giving him. Finally, I reach forward as well and grasp his arm firmly. "Thank you, Director Fury."

"So Barton told you who I am already?"

"No," I answer back evenly, "I just observe."

He studies me for a moment more before turning to Barton, "A word?"

Barton nods and follows Fury to the other side of the room so I can't hear, but one advantage I have is extra keen hearing. Who knows why I have it, but I do.

"There isn't much to her, Barton," Fury says.

"Give it time, Director," Clint responds.

"We aren't in a training facility. What are you going to do? Train her in the gym?"

"No sir, I'll take the next quinjet available and transport her to the nearest training center."

What? This is news to me. Does he mind communicating these things to me  _before_  he makes them into plans? I roll my eyes.

"Then what, Agent Barton? She has talent, I'll give you that, but what are you going to do? Just stop your missions for three years and train? She hasn't even finished all the protocol procedures for medical."

"Sir, I can promise you she is perfectly healthy, and what  _is_  wrong with her is simply the lack of activity. Also sir," Barton's voice drops so I have to strain my ears to hear, "there seems to be suspicious activity with our doctors, specifically, Keira's psychiatrist."

"Activity? Does this have anything to do with her relapse?" Fury questions, his voice lower as well.

Clint doesn't respond, but stares at the Director while handing him a file. Fury studies Clint for a moment before taking it and flipping it open. He skims over the information for a moment before letting out a sigh and handing it back to Barton.

"Override to protocol 114 excepted, Agent Barton," Fury murmurs.

"My thanks, Director. And about the missions sir, she will be coming with me."

_Excuse me!?_

"Agent?" the Director's reaction is just the same as mine.

"Yes, it's unsanctioned, but the missions will be counted as he training, along with the basic training that she will receive at the facility."

_No way in hell the Fury's going to agree to that_! I shout in my head. Of course, part of me wants to believe that he won't so I can get out of this little pickle.

Fury studies Barton for a moment, both of them having their own conversation without words. Finally, he speaks, "Very well, Agent. I'll take your lead on this, but remember my warning."

_What?!_

"Understood, Director," Barton murmurs back. The Director stalks off and Barton walks back to me, a smug smile on his sarcastic face.

"What the hell was that?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You heard all that?"

"Like hell I did! I'm going on  _missions_? In the name of all that is good and holy! You cannot be serious!"

"You'll have adequate training, of course," he says in a "duh" voice.

"What the hell does that mean?" I hiss back. "I never said—"

"Keira," Barton interrupts me, "I promised you I would make you an assassin—"

"I don't remember that promise," I mumble.

"—and not just an assassin, but the best there is in the business. No one will be able to touch you Keira. That is my promise. Do you trust me?" Clint presses.

I shake my head stubbornly and respond without thinking, "No."

He just laughs lightheartedly, "That's a very different tune to what you were saying when you were knocked out."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving my world in shambles, and he knows it. I hate how he can do that

"Wait, wha—hey! Come back here! What do you mean?" I shout after him as I jog to keep up. He just laughs and doesn't answer me. I'm not so sure I want an answer, so I keep a sullen silence. I feel three years old again as I follow him, looking at my shoes and dragging my feet.

We thread through the many passages of the helicarrier and I get many strange looks in the process. I just glare back at anyone who has the audacity to openly stare.

Suddenly, Clint pushes a door open to the runway of the helicarrier where quinjets are parked and tied down.

I suck in a breath as I feel like my lungs are being crushed from the change in air pressure. The wind whips through my body and I feel like I'll just be lifted and taken over the side of the helicarrier with a strong puff.

Clint walks across the runway and I follow blindly, hunching down against the wind and not paying my attention to my surroundings. A couple of arguments and threats later, a quinjet is prepped and we are inside it. Well, I'm in the back and Clint is driving. I don't know whether to be excited, scared, nervous, distrustful, or paranoid.

I sit on the hard bench, clenching the sides with white knuckles to keep the bouncing at as much of a minimum as possible, but my butt hurts like crazy. Soon I get used to it and I feel my eye lids start to close. I force them open, staring stubbornly ahead, but they start to droop again. Without being fully aware of it, I fall into a deep, dark sleep where nothing exists: not dreams, not nightmares, not memories. It is refreshing.

* * *

I wake up hours later to a crooked world. I blink a moment before jerking upright. I must have fallen to the side on the bench when I fell asleep. The quinjet is still flying, but the turbulence has calmed down considerably. I rub a sore spot on my head ruefully from where I was lying on the bench.

I get up and stretch my arms above my head before yelling at Clint, who is still flying in the front. "Barton! Are we there yet?"

"Oh, God no, don't start with 'are we there yet'." He yells back. "And yes, we are here."

"Impeccable timing," I mutter as the quinjet begins its slow decent down. Soon, it touches ground and the back ramp opens up. Only darkness floods in and I realize it is night. I wonder how long we were flying, not that it really matters. I slow move down the ramp and I have my breath stolen from me by what greats my eyes.

We are in the middle of some desert like wilderness with no other building in sight. A huge runway is lit up by lights, leading to a hanger that is twice the size of what a hanger should be. I know that inside is the training facility containing everything needed to make an assassin. This sends shivers down my spine.

I feel and hand on my shoulder and immediately swing around to Barton. He pulls away, quickly, knowing he startled me.

"Keira, after you step in there, the next time you step out, you will be a trained killer. Do you think you have what it takes?"

" _You're_  the one who thinks I have what it takes," I mumble.

"Yes, I do, but that means nothing if you don't believe it," he shoots back.

I pause and think for a moment before answering, "Barton, I really don't have a choice. If I go back to where I was before, I'm behind bars. There is nowhere for me to go except here," I finish.

He nods and swings a duffle bag over his shoulder before heading to the building. I take a deep breath, and follow.

 


	10. Allies

I follow Barton wordlessly to a discreet door in the side of the building. He pulls out an id card and holds it up to a scanner. The scanner makes a beeping alarm sound and the door swings open. Barton and I walk in to a tunnel like hallway that leads to yet another door. He holds his id up to that one as well and it swings open.

I jump back a little warily at what it reveals. A woman in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform is standing with her arms crossed, obviously waiting for us. She is obviously muscular and a very imposing 5'11" for a woman. Her face is blank of emotion while her piecing blue eyes flick over everything. Her platinum blond hair is pulled back into a professional, military bun, only emphasizing the rigidness and lack of curves on her entire body. Her jaw is wide and strong with a large nose and forehead while her shoulders are broad and lined with obvious muscle along her entire body. I swear, if I didn't know better I would have said she looked like a man. She isn't pretty, not by a long shot, but she doesn't look like she  _wants_  to be pretty. She looks like she wants to beat the crap out of you.

"Agent Hunter," Barton acknowledges curtly.

She doesn't move or acknowledge Barton back but gets straight to the point. "The Director said you'd be coming with a new recruit."

"What else did he tell you?" Barton questions. She barely waits for him to finish before answering.

"Not much."

An awkward silence settled over our little group while Barton and Agent Hunter have a staring contest. I try to make myself the smallest and attract absolutely no attention. Of course, she turns her unnerving blue eyes straight to me. I avoid them and look at the ground, wishing Barton would get me out of this situation.

"So this is the recruit?" she questions as if I'm not standing right there. Neither of us answers since she already knows the answer. With her hands clasped behind her back, she slowly circles me and I can practically feel the line of her sight all across my body. "Not what I expected for putting up this much fuss," she comments to herself, which I find very rude.

"She was in medical for three months. Her physical condition is degraded," Clint adds. I send him a death glare from under my eyelashes. He is NOT helping.

"We are already full, I don't see how we can accept another recruit—"

"You don't have to worry about that. I'll be the one training her," Clint interrupts. Agent Hunter gives him a slightly surprised look before watching me with even more interest.

_Dang you Barton!_

"Fine," she clips curtly before heading to a computer and typing something. I breathe a sigh of relief now that her eyes are off me. "Your room will be 563 and you report at 0500 for your PT (physical test) and ME (medical exam). The rooms are through that door and straight down the hall. Dismissed," she cuts off.

I don't even glance at Barton before practically running out the door, thankful for any excuse to be out of there.

I hear the two agents talking in low tones, before the door slams shut behind me.

"Through that door and straight down the hall," I repeat softly to myself, "number 563."

Sure enough, I come across it in the millions of doors down the infinitely long hallway. I rest my hand on the door knob for a moment and pause. I cast a quick glance around. I wonder briefly how many of these rooms are occupied, and how many sleeping people are in here, just waiting for the sun to come up and bring another day.

I push the door open to reveal a cell like room, no different from the hospital ones I have been staying in; save this one has no tubes, wires, needles, and weird machines. A simple white cot is tucked in the corner with white sheets and a white bed stand on which sits a white alarm clock and all this blends in with the white walls. Two white doors to a closet and a bathroom are barely visible against the walls. I don't bother with anything, since I have no gear and no possessions, I have nothing to worry about. I practically fall into the cot that is a poor excuse for a bed and pull the itchy covers over my head, tunneling myself down as far as I can go.

So here I am, on my own, in a foreign and not very friendly place where I will learn to become a killing machine (the thought makes me shiver. I couldn't kill a person, right? I don't want to kill people. I quickly move on from that thought) with the mentorship of an assassin,  _right_ … this is going to be good.

* * *

 

 _Ouch_. That is the only conscious word that registers through my mind as pain tears through my entire body. Hawkeye's blows keep coming while I'm still recovering from the ones he gave a minute ago. Though they hurt like hell, I know he's holding back because I felt his  _real_ punch before I ended up in the hospital. Compared to that, these are nothing, but they still hurt. They're quick. They're concise. They're too fast for the naked eye to follow. But I start to realize what he wants me to do. In the beginning of the spar, I tried to block all and every of his blows, but now that he's worn me to the point of exhaustion, I start to calculate the ones that will cause the most damage, and the ones which seriously need to be blocked, or they would knock me out. He also seems to be using the same tricks over and over again. I  _know_  he has more of an arsenal then that, but he keeps using the same ones so that I can learn from experience (rather than school room teaching) the best way to cope with them. But the most important of all, he's training me to take a beating, to keep fighting when I know there is no hope for my victory, to take the hardest hits but be so accustomed to them that they barely sting, which they are already doing. My body is growing accustomed to these brutal shots, and what used to sting like hell before I barley blink an eye at now.

I don't even see his fist coming, but suddenly it slams into my temple. I feel my neck twist and my back arch, being forced backwards from the weight of the blow. It was so unexpected that my body doesn't even try to resist. I see black spots, well, more then I already did, and my hearing buzzes.

I slam into the ropes around the ring and slump against them, clinging desperately. My legs shake and tremble underneath me so I doubt they can hold my own weight, but I push them to at least keep me up with the support of the ropes.

Suddenly, I'm flying through the air. Years of doing this has made me stay calm, so I start to twist my body the way I would to land feet first, but something is holding onto my legs. I feel panic well up in my throat as I see the ground looming closer. I thrash out and wiggle desperately, trying to rid myself of the imprisoning weight that is pulling my body down. The desperation gives me an extra rush of adrenaline (which, if I'm completely honest, I love. I love the feeling of exhaustion, and then the rush that pushes your sweat soaked body to do things that you never knew possible, all the while feeling the nearest to death from dehydration you've ever felt before) but it seems to do nothing.

My mind calculates before I consciously do that I will not have time to land on my feet anymore, so it reflexes me to cover my head and curl into a fetal position while twisting so my back will take the landing.

It comes all too quickly and I can barely breathe as the air leaves my lunges in a  _whoosh_. The fact that Hawkeye's hand is pinning down my abdomen doesn't help as I struggle to breathe.

Of course, this isn't enough for him. One hand forces my defensive position open while the other wraps around my neck, cutting off my already minimal air supply.

"I think," I barely manage to wheeze out, "you won."

My mind is already turning, and he has made one big mistake. When he forced my legs straight and out of their curled position, he forgot them as he straddle them in order to get a good position for the choke hold.

"Mistake number one: you turned your back to your enemy."

"Mistake number one," I respond, "you thought I was down."

Barely before I finish speaking, I use the leverage of his hand against my neck, and even though it is extremely painful, I push against it to give my extremely weak legs a boost. I hit him right in the crotch and immediately feel the tension on my neck slacken. I use my left hand and shove his choke hold sideways. Since his grip was already slacked, he just slips off my neck. I backward roll away from him and bound to my feet in a defensive position.

I don't know how he recovered so quickly, but he is already up by the time I face him. He doesn't lunge at me, nor is he even in a fighting position. He is simply observing me with a calculating look. I don't let my guard down. He might just be waiting to pounce. As far as he's been playing, anything goes. It doesn't matter how you win the fight, what matters is if you win.

"So who wins?" I ask.

He grins at me. "Technically I did."

"Um, technically you had me down and you underestimated me and I took the opportunity and outsmarted you," I snort.

"Outsmarted me? You just managed to slither out of my grasp."

"I managed to stay alive. If this had been a real fight, I would have gotten up and had enough time to run away before you were able to catch me again."

"If this had been a real fight, I would have given you a knock-out punch and overpowered you during the first thirty seconds."

"Ouch. I guess that's why you're training me, isn't it?" I grin back. Suddenly, all my adrenaline leaves and I see black spots again. I feel my legs shake and they tingle with exhaustion, barely able to hold me up. Not able to hold me up at all, in fact. I slump forward and fall to my knees. To keep myself from falling completely over, I fall forward on all fours and hang my head, retching and gagging, but nothing comes up.

Hawkeye is there with a bottle of water, lifting up my face and holding the bottle to my lips. I can barely get any of the water down though.

He laughs, "Good fight."

I roll my eyes the best I can.

"You ok?" he asks with enough decency to act as if he has a speck of concern. I don't answer, but just hang my head. I'm still struggling to breathe after that trip through the air and back down. "Breathe," he commands. What does he think I'm trying to do? Hold my breath? I would indulge my first impulse to say this out loud, but I decide not to waste precious energy on something as trivial as pacifying my own wounded pride and need for sarcasm.

I think over the day. The past few hours have been pretty much hell. It's only about eight in the morning, but I was brutally roused at five. Then I was dragged off for my ME (medical exam) which was horrible. Doctors, again. Hordes of them, bleeding, scoping, scraping, and puncturing me with needles, heart monitors and the like. My paranoia of hospitals and records nearly got the best of me, but I managed to stay calm enough not to kill one of the docs before they delivered me to Hawkeye. I remember his ironic words.  _Had a bad morning?_  He had asked.  _It was nightmarish_ , I responded. After that was my PT (Physical Exam), which I understand I will be taking monthly for the duration of my training. If I'm correct, Barton was rather unorthodox with it though. Then again, I don't think either of us is following the rules as far as my training goes.

So here I am, in the aftermath of an extreme beating and wondering what exactly is going on the file for my "physical exam." After all, getting the crap beat out of you on your first fight (true, I didn't have any training, but still…) can't look very good. The very fact that I'm here under constant observation and monitoring by a  _government agency_  and possibly everything I say and do might end up on a  _file under my true name_  is rather distracting. While on this topic, I still doubt whether I was in my right mind when I decided to come here or if Hawkeye hit me harder than I thought.

Either way, I'm here now, for better or for worse, and I comfort myself with the thought that I could sneak away and return to my old life if I ever felt the need to. Part of me knows this is a lie though. Part of me knows that I've seen behind a curtain only a select few ever even get a glimpse of. There is no going back.

 _No!_  I tell myself fiercely _, I can leave WHENEVER I like. You know how to disappear. You know how to vanish into thin air. If things go wrong, you can always hack their systems, erase anything they have on you, and then vanish into thin air._

My ruminating is interrupted when Hawkeye grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. The sudden movement causes the black spots to return with a sudden fit of dizziness. I gasp and clutch at his arm, trying to steady myself. My sweat is already drying cold on my skin. I feel the shakiness in my legs, no longer from complete exhaustion, but from the after effects of a severely taxing workout.

"Get a drink, breathe, and then meet me on the floor."

This place, which looked like an oversized hanger from outside, is really an elaborate network maze of dorms, eating areas, offices for the trainers, and the biggest part designated to what is called the "Training Center" and inside the Training Center is a floor rather like the one used in gymnastics on which moves for close combat that include acrobats such as flipping or moves that need an open space.

With a nod, I duck under the ropes and jump down, heading towards the drinking fountain. The Training Center is the main center, but also there are many (thousands) of individual training rooms that can contain anything from the basic lifting, to an obstacle course with elaborate traps and snares, testing the agility and endurance of the trainee. There are also lap pools, diving pools, running tracks, treadmills that are sleek and shaped like hamster wheels, and many other types of elite equipment that have not been released for the use of the general public.

Five minutes later, I'm standing with Barton on the floor.

"So, show me what you can do."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

"Just what I said."

"Stop being so damn cryptic and answer me," I can't help but snarl. I'm tired, sore, in extreme pain, and I know things are going to get a whole lot worse from here, thereby not helping to improve my temper.

"Let's start off with the simple skills. In hand-to-hand combat, the most elite of the assassins can use any trick they need to outwit their enemy. That includes basic maneuvers such as back flips, front flips, hand-springs, long jumps, so on and so forth, and use these maneuvers on items around them. First, though, you need to master these skills on the most basic level."

"So basically you want me to show you how much of my gymnastics training I've lost over the past threeish years of not practicing," I say in a flat tone.

"No, I want to see how much it will come back to you, and if I'm correct, it should take minimal time to get back into your muscle memory."

The next three hours are spent on mostly gymnastics tumbling. I feel tentative with each skill as they gradually increase in difficulty, but soon I'm starting to feel at ease. It feels so good to practice my standing-back-tucks over and over and over again, just like I used to years ago. It feels so good to have Hawkeye coach me on kips from the ground, focusing on changing this bit of form here, a bit more there, tweaking it until it hits perfection.

I was in the middle of a simple round-off-layout when suddenly, the last time I had been flying through the air and things went terribly wrong came flashing before my eyes. My pass had been a triple-twisting-double-back. Everything had felt wrong from the start, even the run. I remember taking off. The world flashed before my eyes, but I was at the wrong angle. I was too low. I knew it was wrong. I wouldn't have enough time to twist. But I was already moving, my muscles automatically obeying the move they had practiced a thousand times before, never doubting its fellow muscles that had made a miscalculation from the start. I was right and I didn't have enough time to twist. Or at least, finish the twist. I came down still twisting, cleanly snapping the tibia and tearing numerous muscles holding my knee cap in place. I didn't know this at the time of course. All I knew was a horrible pain stabbing up my leg, then everything going black, and then blazing white. People's muddled voices babbling in the background, and foremost a horrible screaming. It took me a long time to find out that it was my own scream.

I land my simple layout, but my eyes are wide with horror. I can barely breathe, and I stand in the same place where I stuck my landing, stiff as a board, arms extended in front of me, knees bent under the impact of the land, and eyes unseeing to anything in front of me. Did it really happen? Did I just relive that horrible experience in my mind, or actually in my body? No, I couldn't have. I just landed the layout. Than why am I hyperventilating?

I snap out of it as Hawkeye waves in front of my face.

"Keira, you listening to me?"

 _No, I just heard absolutely nothing you just said_ , "Yeah, sorry. I was… just thinking about something."

"Ok, good, cause we need to work on your form on the takeoff. After your reach your hands to the ground—"

I tune out the rest of the sentence, going through the motions mechanically. That was the first time I'd allowed myself to think of the incident in years. Now it all came flooding back to me. All of it. Including the fear.

The fear of flight. One of the most terrifying there is, and a gymnast lives in it consistently. But that wasn't all. Sure, I'm afraid of the physicality that I have to face, but more than anything, I'm terrified of losing confidence in myself. What if Hawkeye asks me to do some amazingly crazy stunt, and I just can't do it? What then? Do I go back to the street?

 _You just told yourself you wanted to go back there_ , I remember.

 _I said I wanted to, IF things went wrong, not because I didn't cut it. Not because they kicked me out and I have nowhere else to go_ , I argue desperately.

_Riiight, so you got yourself working for a national security top secret government agency, and then you expect to just walk away? No. They will never let you leave. They will keep using you until you are of no more use to them, and then they will abandon you and throw you out onto the street like an old shoe. It has its perks right now, but later, you're going to regret ever trusting that deceiving wretch._

_NO! Hawkeye helped me! He is still helping me!_

_Of course that's what you think right now, but what about later? What about—_

"Keira!"

I snap my head up and find Hawkeye's demanding eyes boring down on me. What am I doing on the ground? How did I get down here? What has he been saying?

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I lie, quickly standing up.

"Get your head in the game, you don't have any more time for daydreaming," he snaps.

_I wasn't daydreaming you idiot, I was contemplating the possibilities of being killed or used in my bleak-looking future._

"You have a thirty minute cool down, and then go to lunch."

With that, he turned heel and left.

 _Whatever_ , I grumble as I ease myself into cool down stretches. I spend my thirty minutes enjoying the tug and loosening of my taxed muscles. I can already feeling them cramping and tensing. As I stretch out my limbs, I inspect the black and blue bruises that have already started rising in welts on my arms, legs, abdomen, and face. Those are going to look bad in a couple days. I find I also have a busted lip and what feels like an angry, red welt across my cheek bone and of course a bruise on my temple from that immense hit I wasn't able to block earlier.

I realize my time is up, and I quickly make my way through the endless maze of corridors to the cafeteria (with the help of numerous maps and signs along the way. I pull open the door and freeze.

It never hit me before how many recruits there actually are. There must be  _thousands_ , all chattering and mingling like one big organism of crawling insects. Granted, my metaphor is not the most flattering, but it aptly describes the sight that greets my eyes. Some of them seem older than me, but a minority might be a few years younger, which surprises me. How do they get these kids here? Orphans? That is my guess. What parent in their right mind would ship their kid off to military/assassin training school at the age of twelve? Maybe ones with extremely limited financial situations and extremely bright children.

Then it dawns on me just how ratty I must look. I'm in the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. trainee uniform. A latex suit-like unitard with light combat boots. No fancy gadgets, no pockets or belts. The suit itself is a drab, dark grey color with a S.H.I.E.L.D. patch on the shoulder. These suits breathe nicely, but seem to stick to your skin in sweat.

Of course, I'm sweaty as hell and my hair is ratty, falling out of its ponytail, and frizzled. Everyone else seems to have perfect hair; all smoothed back and perfectly pulled away from the face. All he boys have theirs in longer crew cuts, like Hawkeye's, and the girls either have their hair wrapped in a military bun or pulled back in a ponytail.

After getting a tray and filling it with random stuff, I sit at the end of a table that seemingly no one has claimed. I hunch my shoulders over my food and hope to get through the meal unnoticed and go back to my training.

"That's my seat," a calm and quiet, yet firm, voice states behind me.

"Really? I didn't see your name on it," I shoot back, not bothering to turn around.

I keep eating my food, waiting for some sign of an oncoming attack, but nothing happens. The person just waits behind me for a long time, as if deliberating what to do.

 _Well let them deliberate and I can eat in peace_.

Finally, the person seems to have made up his mind and rounds the table into my vision line. A boy who looks about fourteen with dark hair and ice blue eyes meets my gaze. He is small, but I can tell right away he is incredibly smart. I have no doubt he got into this program if only for that. Like I said, he's small, but that does not seem to diminish his size. Rather, he seems to be emanating a calm, quiet sort of leadership.

I realize he wasn't telling me to move out of spite, but he was just showing me how things are done around here. Or rather, how they  _should_  be done. I never do things how they  _should_  be done.

He sets his tray across from me deliberately. Everything this kid seems to do is deliberate. He never once broke our gaze.

"So you're new here?" he asks quietly.

"How could you tell?" eye roll.

He ignores my sarcasm and keeps staring at me with intensity. "You didn't come with the new batch of recruits, and you're too old to have anyways."

"Ya, I'm what you consider a…  _late comer_."

"How'd you get here? I haven't seen you train before," he inquires. All his questions are concise and to the point, each and every one meant to get an answer to the question he wants.

"I got here last night and it's none of your business how I got here," I respond snappishly.

He nods curtly, but I can tell it's more of a we'll-continue-this-conversation-later-but-right-n ow-I've-gotten-all-I-need-out-of-it kind of nod. "How'd you get the bruises?"

"Training."

"And you've only been here half a day?" he asks skeptically.

"No one's beating me up if that's what you're asking. I haven't even met anyone except you."

"Who's training you? You weren't assigned in a group. Did you have training before hand?"

"Those answers are classified."

"Bull," he states bluntly.

I grin at him. No matter how annoying he is, I kinda like him. I mean, he's not mean, arrogant, and intrusive in a meaningless nosy way, but he just wants information.

"What about you? How long've you been here?" I ask to divert the conversation to him. No doubt he knows what I'm doing, but I don't care.

"Sometimes it feels like months, sometimes like centuries," he says with what  _may_  be a ghost of a smile. I still can't tell. I smile obligingly, but he's not giving me answers. His statement is clear,  _give me straight answers and I'll give you ones back_.

I study his face. It's thin, but not shallow. His skin is white, but not pasty. His nose and chin are small, but not delicate. He has a determination and a cold fire behind those ice blue eyes that I can sense.

"What's your name?" I ask bluntly.

"What's yours?" he shoots back.

I stare at him a moment longer before replying, "Keira Matheson."

"Nathan Ortuso," he replies without skipping a beat.

"Now we're getting somewhere," I grin.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, you?"

"Sixteen."

I'm dumbstruck. This kid looks easily fourteen years old. True, he's about exactly my height, but I look like a twelve year old…

"I know, I look fourteen," he echoes my thoughts.

"No older than me," I laugh amiably.

"So you want to know how to survive here?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, bewildered.

"What I said, do you want to know what it takes to stay alive in shark-infested waters?"

"That doesn't sound comforting," I remark dryly.

For the first time I get a grin, but it's more a grin of cynical realism than actual humor, "Nothing here is comforting."

"I don't think I'm going to be actually spending a lot of time with you guys," I shoot back warily.

"Doesn't matter. You get beat alone, you get beat in public. Same, see? Trainers not always be there to save your ass, and after you get beat, they won't. See?"

I do see. He's telling me that if I get beaten alone in the bathroom, I'll have the bruises to show it to the world, than it would be as bad as if I got beaten in public. The trainers will label me as a coward, someone who needs the toughening up. They will use the pecking order as a way to make sure all of the trainees rise to the top. As for Nathan's lapse in language, I'm guessing it's some sort of slang they use here. I'll pick it up eventually. But what he doesn't know is that after my first week of training with Hawkeye, I won't have to even worry about the stupid pecking order.

"I see," I answer slowly, not breaking his gaze. "What else do I need to know?"

"You tell me what you know then I'll tell you what  _I_  know," he counters.

"I don't know anything," flatly.

"Bull," he says again.

"Well how 'bout this. What do you think I know that you would like me to tell you?"

"You've been on the other side."

"What other side?"

"Figure it out, Keira."

I study him carefully, turning the wheels in my head and working the problem out in my mind. He said I've seen on the other side. The other side of what? The other side of the curtain. That phrase was in my mind earlier this morning. I'd seen the other side of the curtain of a national security government run agency that a select few were allowed to know about, let alone see. Is it possible that even these trainees, these to-be elite of the elite don't even know what they are training for? Or maybe they do, but they only have a vague idea. Or maybe they have no idea at all. Maybe they are taking a leap of faith, trusting to dumb luck that they are spending their adolescent years training for something worth giving up your life for. This should be enough for them, but not for Nathan.

He wants to know what it's like on the other side of the curtain. He's like me. He doesn't trust in dumb luck, he makes his own. He doesn't trust what everyone tells him. He's calculating, cynical even, but damn is he good. So if he doesn't trust, then why is he here? Maybe we have more in common than I first thought.

"You're off the street." I state. The words come out without my permission.

"So are you," he counters again. I don't deny it.

"You know I've been in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bases."

"Obviously."

"How?"

"You didn't come with the group of new recruits. You're too old to have anyways. You're physical condition suggests you've been in quarantine for a while, but my guess is the hospital. You're off the street, I can always tell a fellow brother of poverty. You came in the middle of the night, no explanation, no introductions. That suggests that you're not following the "curriculum" they teach here. They are training you for something special. They didn't even put you in a group. How did you get here? We are in the middle of nowhere in some of the toughest terrain there is. My guess is you came in a quinjet. In order to have come in a quinjet, you needed to first have come from the dock, and to come from the dock, you had to have come from a S.H.I.E.L.D. base."

"Good deducting, except for one small fact you skipped over."

"Oh really? And what is that?"

"I was in  _quarantine_  the whole time. I didn't exactly get much of a chance to see how the system works."

He looks disgusted. "You mean you didn't find a way to hack their systems?"

"Not exactly. They kept me on a… tight leash."

A buzzer startles both of us out of our conversation. Lunch break over. I guess half an hour went faster than I thought.

"What's your room number?" he whispers urgently.

"Why?"

"Just tell me!" he pushes.

For some reason unknown to me, I tell him, "563."

"Fine. See you tonight."

"Wait—" but he's already gone, mingling into the crowd. In mechanical movements, I clear nearly all the food on my tray into the trash bin, we were talking so much I was able to eat hardly any of it. So, I made a new friend, or what I hope is a new friend. Nathan Ortuso. He's smart. I like smart. He might not have a lot of friends, but he knows how to stay alive.

I take a quick glance around, and sure enough, some of the big kids (the bullies) are eyeing me like candy. I'll have to watch my back for a while.

So how does Ortuso survive? He's small, but I think they leave him alone because they know that no matter how much they try, he will always be smarter than them. He has that quiet demeanor, but calm leadership. They back away because they know that he has more command over himself than they could have over him by beating him up, and they know that no matter how much they pick on him, he will never lower himself to trade punches at their level.

Smart kid.

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts, I don't realize until too late that I am lost in the maze of corridors. I wasn't keeping track of where I was going, and now I'm lost. Crap.

Suddenly, I hear a voice blare over the intercom, "Keira Matheson," I can't help an involuntary flinch at my name, "report to deck 307 for review."

Whatever that means. I quickly locate a map and look for deck 307. Soon, I'm off walking again until I come to deck 307.

It looks like a computer room, and I guess it's where all the trainers and instructors run this place. There are at least twenty computers lined up across all the walls with desks at each one.

The room looks empty and it's dark, save for the light of the computer monitors, that is, until Agent Hunter stands up.

I quickly put my cool mask on, not betraying any of the terror I feel as she walks towards me.

"Matheson," she holds out a silver stick, which I guess is a flash drive, "here is everything you will need for the duration of your training here. I trust you will review it tonight in your room."

I nod mutely, even though I'm burning to ask her where the stupid computer I would need to plug this in is. I don't remember one being there last night.

"Next you have Military Tactics in the simulation room number 9838 pod number 6720 which starts in three minutes. You better run if you want to get there on time. A mark off on your first day cannot look good on your record."

Once again I nod.

"Dismissed."

I snap a quick solute before turning and running off. This isn't fair, and she knows it. All the other kids had a good five minutes extra to get where they had to go, whereas me, on my first day, was set up to be late.

Once again, I have to locate a map and sprint to my "Military Tactics" training. Whatever  _that_  is.

Luckily for me, I have, if not a photographic memory, something pretty dang close. I have an image of the map in my head, and the places on it that I studied are crystal clear, but this place is extensive, so I don't bother trying to memorize the  _whole_ map. When I need a new piece of information, I simply study it and memorize, storing it away for later.

I find the "simulation" room as it's called, or room number 9838. I enter and something I did not expect greets my eyes. The room is completely dark, save for pods that are semi circled down into the floor. A faint glow, relative to a computer monitor, rises from them. There are steps leading down into them, and the floor, which has about a two foot radius, seems to be lit up. I cannot see clearly from here what is on the walls of these pods, and I cannot see where all these pods end. They seem to be stretching out forever, their faint glow rising from the floor of this dark simulation room. I'm dumbfounded. I've never seen anything like this before.

"Recruit, state your name and pod number," a clipped voice says behind me.

I whirl around and find a trainer staring down at me. "Keira Matheson, 6720."

Soon, I'm climbing down the stairs of one of these pods. My pod. I realize what is on the walls. They are holographic 3d images. Right now it's simply on "screen saver" mode and fish, sea urchins, and marine life all float around me. I reach out to touch a rainbow fish that swims by, expecting to just be reaching into thin air, but the fish reacts. This scares the shit out of me. It jerks its position away from my hand as if I was really swimming with it.

I jump back, tangling my feet in the process, and go sprawling against the far wall.

"Careful," the trainer who is standing above me snaps. Then she leaves.

The place where I landed is devoid of fishes. They all seemed to have gathered on the opposite side. I guess that my movement must've scared them. Now I know what they mean by "simulation room."

The program must be responsive to movement and is intelligent enough to move its holographic images in response to my movement. I slowly stand up, regarding the shark that swims within a foot of me warily. I know it's just an image, but it still creeps me out.

Suddenly, the sound of machines whirring above me makes me crouch reflexively and cover my head with my arms, scattering the fish that had begun to swim lazily nearby. Nothing comes down on to me, but a sound similar to a projector being let down in a home-theater comes from above me. I remove my arms to find that a ceiling is being rolled over the top of the pod. I bound up the stairs, desperate to get out of this pod before it traps me in, but I'm not fast enough. It seals shut just as I reach the top of the stairs, trapping me inside. I run my hands across where it is shut, and then throw my shoulder into it, but I already know it's futile. I feel panicked.

It is a large enough pod, it stands about two feet above my own head, and the bowl like walls give it the feeling of a wide space along with the depth perceptions of the holographic images, but I know I can't get out, and that is enough to frighten me.

Suddenly, the holo changes. It reflects the incredibly life-like reflection of water all across the pod, changing the ceiling (which I see now also reflects 3d holo images so that I feel immersed in the environment) to seem as if I am deep in water and I can see the fragmented images of sunlight beaming ahead. Even the floor has the images of deep sea underneath me with a coral reef to my left.

I stare down in marvel at my hands and feet and find them covered in the reflections of water, as if I was truly in it. I walk forward to touch the walls of the pod, but the ground underneath me moves as well, matching my pace. I almost fall over in surprise. At first I think that perhaps it moves so that I may not touch the walls, but when I look to my left, the coral reef seems farther away. I take more steps, and soon the coral reef is simply a speck far away in the sea.

"It's beautiful," I murmur, looking all around me and seeing ocean as if I was underneath the surface.

"Voice activation required," a mechanical female voice sounds.

Voice activation? "Keira Matheson," I state.

Suddenly, the wall opens up and a small screen pops out. "Palm scan required," it says again.

I lay my palm on the screen and a laser quickly scans it.

"Please insert your USB drive."

The flash drive? I forgot I was holding it this whole time. I quickly plug it in and immediately the ocean setting vanishes and is replaced by an array of selections I don't understand.

Suddenly, a horribly distorted, computer voice starts speaking. "This is your AI speaking, please select the following preferences to personalize the program to your tastes."

I wince the tiniest bit, repulsed by the voice. So I have an AI, and what for? Why would they spend easily thousands of dollars on software so intelligent for a mere recruit? The AI must be linked to the pod and everything else I do. By the  _extensive_  array of personalizations, I estimate there must be thousands of options. Then it dawns on me. They want to know everything about you. They want to know how you think, how you move,  _what_  you think, and basically have a road map around you psychology so that when they send you on specialized missions, they can team you up with people who will compliment you, set you up on missions that will best suit your abilities, how you will react to those missions, and basically all the logistics that would affect the out outcome of the mission.

If you think of it that way, it makes a lot of sense.

But I don't apply to those rules. I'm not going to be that "average agent." I'm going to be an assassin. At least, if Hawkeye can be trusted. Either way, this AI is a way to get inside your mind. It's a way for them to learn your thoughts, your dreams, your preferences.

Well, two can play at that game.

Also, I'm absolutely sure they are testing my intelligence right now based on how I'm able to adapt and learn to program this thing. Tentatively, I reach out and tap a random preference, which is simply a hologram image. I think maybe it will react like a computer, and by tapping it, it will open as if I clicked it with a mouse, but I'm wrong. Instead, if follows my finger as if I had grabbed it.

I wrench my hand back, and the image goes flying to the other side of the room before bumping to a stop against the curved wall.

More confident, I reach out for one that says "voice." I grab it and hold it like it's a small box in my hand. I study it for a moment, confused as how to open it or get a response. I put both hands together, and then pull them apart as if pulling it open. Sure enough, it opens to a whole new set of more extensive and precise preferences.

So this is extremely similar to a computer, or a hacking device, both of which I'm wizards at. Soon I feel as familiar with this as I did with my own devices. It's also kind of fun. I mean, what computer geek wouldn't love a 3d hologram complete submersion inside the computer itself? Not even that, this is one of the most advanced of technologies I've ever seen. Whoever built it is in the cutting edge of technology.

My memory comes into service here. I can open a file, close it up again or leave it open, and when I come across something that would be useful in that category, or vice-versa, I remember exactly where everything is and exactly how to get back to it.

The first thing I decided to focus on was the voice, but then I changed my mind and decided to work on commands, personalizing them, reprogramming them, until I have the most sensitive commands. I don't know how long it takes, but after what feels like hours of working, I have this thing answering almost as if it was a real person. I know that I'll keep tweaking it over time until I can develop her into as real a person as I ever can.

I think for a long time over what name I should give it. I know that I would prefer female, but what name? It had to be meaningful to me, in a way that would baffle psychiatrists, but would make sense to Hawkeye, or simply people how know me. What drove me here? What forced me to be found and brought out of hiding? The war. The war that was started by the villain, Loki. Hey, I had a lot of free time before Hawkeye actually found me and I'm sure the CIA are still trying to find out who infiltrated their systems… even if they do, I'll probably have full immunity. Loki, the brother of Thor, the Norse god of thunder. Loki made his war out of pure malice, only to take the world from the brother who he thought slighted him. Sif. Sif was a beautiful maiden from Norse mythology who was stunning, who had hair like the golden sun, and in a fit of spite, Loki slashed it all off. I'm the maiden. The one who was a victim of Loki's pure spite. Rather self-pitying, I don't deny it, but it's relatively true.

With that settled, I focus on her voice, tweaking it, while I listen to the before recorded voice activation over and over again, reprogramming it over and over again, changing the pitches to create the perfect combination, changing it from the repulsing computer, mechanical voice it was before.

Finally, it suits my tastes. I look over my command programming once more before finally being satisfied.

I take a deep breath and call out tentatively, "Sif?"

"Yes?" a quiet, almost  _childlike_ and girlish voice answers back softly. I can't help but let a smile spread across my face. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling of that sweet, innocent voice. It's exactly how I always imagined the real Sif's.

I don't know what to say next, so I decide to start it as I would a conversation with a stranger. "Hello."

"Hi," she answers back shyly. I smile again.

"How are you?"

"Considering the fact that I was just brought to life and given a voice and a  _person_ , I feel rather well. How about you?" she asks a little rhetorically. I almost forget that I was the one who programmed her to have that.

"That's good." I want to ask her if they are recording this conversation, if they are listening to everything we say. There is no way she couldn't know, but until I know exactly how to program her, and we get more comfortable, I'll just have to stick to small talk. After all, they might block what her true answer would be, so until I figure out how to bypass their security systems, I'll be able to expand Sif past the normal intellectual design that they have restricted us to. "What time is it?"

"According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. data bases—"

Suddenly, her voice cuts off like a dying computer, a burst of static, and then the lights flicker out and the whole pod shuts down, leaving me in the dark.

"Sif?" I call out timidly. No answer. It's deathly quiet. Not even the normal, quiet hum of the computer screen around me.

Suddenly, the machines start whirling and I see the ceiling retract. I guess I either passed or failed the test. Well, at least they are letting me out now.

The mechanism in the wall opens and my flash drive pops out. I yank it out.

I slowly climb up the stairs, realizing just how exhausted I am. Hours of standing in one place takes more energy than one would think.

I barely notice that all the other kids are pouring out of their pods, like spewing forth the children from their bellies, yielding them to a cold world.

I don't know what time it is, but my internal clock tells me it's time to sleep. I start heading towards my cabin, and no one intercepts me. I vaguely wonder where Hawkeye got to all day, but I'm so tired I could care less.

I push open the door to my room, slam it behind me and make sure it's locked (it seems to lock on its own. Probably so the trainees don't roam the halls at night. I guess the doors won't open until the morning when they intend to let us out.

I don't peel off my suit, but just flop in bed, already feeling the effects of over-taxed muscles. Burying my head in my pillows, I shut my eyes, but I can't sleep despite my weariness.

The flash drive is bothering me. She said I should plug it in and review it tonight, what the hell does that mean?

I make the humongous effort of lifting my head and scan over my room. Then I see it.

Resting against the far wall, a completely white desk has been placed and I can see something on top of it. I drag myself out of bed and pad to the desk on silent feet. A device similar to an ipad, but much thinner and larger by about triple the size, is waiting for me. I pick it up, and immediately it turns on, requesting me to palm in so as to encode this particular device to me.

I let it scan my palm, and then it clicks open, directing me to insert my flash drive. I fumble around my wrinkled bed sheets where I dropped it until I find it and plug it in.

"Keira," I hear Sif.

"Sif!" I respond, a little startled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm installed in your flash drive. Wherever you plug me in, I'll be a part of the software, easily adapting to it so that I control all of the connections."

"Why did they give you to me?"

"They transmit all information you need through me. I'm basically your calendar, reminder, and computer wrapped in one."

"I see. What am I supposed to be studying right now?"

Another 3d holo image immerges from the screen, this time of a whole file of information. I reach for it and find that I can manipulate it just as I did in the pod.

The first thing that reaches my eyes is the phrase, "override to protocol 3290, recruit Keira Matheson will be said 'fit for missions' as soon as the first period of her training has commenced. She will not be integrated into the normal S.H.I.E.L.D. training curriculum, for hers is made specifically to her unique needs for the role she is to play for S.H.I.E.L.D. undercover assignments."

This is just the beginning of a whole bunch of protocol breaches. I pour over them, seeing that this is their way of giving me a glimpse of what the next years of my life will be.

I'm so wrapped in my work, I don't notice the slight vibrations in the ventilation system above my door, or even the slight  _thuds_  that steadily grow louder. It's not until the screen actually falls through, clattering to the ground with the most deafening noise, that I jump, startled from my quiet contemplation.

Except something falls through  _with_  the screen. I'm hampered with the computer on my lap, unable to react as fast as I normally would.

Since I know I can't get up and run around it (also, the stupid door is locked) I decide that my best bet is to scream bloody murder until some trainer comes in and saves me. I'm about to let out a scream, but the thing (or person) reacts faster than I do. I just see a shadowy blur, and then a hand clamps down on the back of my neck and another over my mouth so my scream is effectively muffled, but this person doesn't stop there. He (or she) forces my mouth open, jamming two fingers down my throat. I gag, retching forward, all thought of screaming gone from my mind like they had never been there.

I lean over, coughing violently. I try to get up to defend myself, but every time I move just brings a-whole-nother wave of nauseating coughing.

Finally, my lungs calm down enough that I turn my head, finding the person standing next to me and looking down at me.

" _Ortuso_ ," I gasp angrily before launching into another spurt of coughing.

"Good to see you too," he murmurs, but his voice is odd. He seems to be preoccupied. Suddenly I remember, I left all my files open for him to see. With a quick motion, I clap, bringing all of the holo images to a condensed format in my palm.

"Deactivate," I hoarsely whisper to Sif. Immediately the whole system shuts down, leaving me and Ortuso in pitch darkness.

A light clicks on and I see it is coming from Ortuso's hand, he must have a flashlight. Its blinding beam shines directly in my eyes.

"Hey," I protest, throwing my arms up to shield my face.

"What did you shut it down for?" he asks quietly, not moving the light.

"I don't want you snooping."

"Who said I was snooping?"

"If you were, then I stopped you, if you weren't, then you shouldn't care, right?" I challenge.

I caught him and he knows it.

"What are you doing here?" I bark.

"Come with me," he commands. With that, he jumps up lightly, his amazingly strong and flexible fingers finding purchase on the edge of the metal ventilation shaft. He pulls himself up with a small amount of struggling, kicking, and wiggling before gliding his whole body through and disappearing into the dark shaft.

I stare dubiously after him for a moment before jumping up, pushing the screen (which was still lying on the floor) under my bed, and doing the same as Ortuso. Why I'm following him, I have absolutely no darn idea, but he seems to know his way around the system, and that is good enough for me.

I follow the sound of his crawling until suddenly he stops and clicks on the flashlight. Around us is simply the duct work we are in, and we seem to be at a crossroad. The path we followed continues straight, while another crosses and goes who knows where.

"The rooms are bugged and taped, we couldn't talk there," he explains. I nod, looking around me. "So they had you working on you AI?"

"Yup."

"Odd," he murmurs.

I snap to attention, "What?"

"I said it's odd. They usually don't have trainees working on them until a month of training."

"How do you know what I was working on?"

"I keep tabs on every kid in the program."

"How?"

"Follow me."

And follow him I do. He leads me through many twists and turns, which I carefully observe and route the way back, just in case, until he comes to a deck similar to the one I was in earlier.

He stops, shifting over to give me room to slide up beside him and peer into the room. Unlike the last one, this one is teeming with activity. Trainers sliding from computer to computer, printing, faxing, calling, ordering, all a hive of activity.

"I keep an ear out. I also learned how to infiltrate their systems, but they caught me. They don't kick me out, but apparently they don't think that the level of security I have is dangerous. As long as they keep me there, I'm not a liability."

I nod again, not taking my eyes from the scene below, "So the level of security they let you breach is the one that keeps the tabs on all the students in the program."

"All of them, except yours," he says pointedly, penetrating me with his dark eyes. I snap my gaze to his, eyeing him warily. Stripes of shadow cross his face from the screen in front of us, making it hard to read his expression.

"So that's why you were surprised to see me today; not that I was put in a different program, not that I was pushed ahead and at a faster pace, but because you hadn't even  _seen_  me on your data."

"Apparently your information is a higher pay grade."

"My information has always been a higher pay grade," I grumble.

"You're a New Yorker," he suddenly switches. This kid keeps throwing me off.

"How could you tell?"

"You have a slight accent, especially when surprised or showing emotions."

This rubs me the wrong way. It makes it sound like he has been documenting everything I do, not letting a single face slip past him. It makes it sound like I'm a science experiment to him and that he doesn't care for any of my emotions save to see if they give him information. I immediately let my walls come up, steeling my eyes and my face into a cold mask. "Well maybe you shouldn't know after all, if the superiors don't want you to get too close. It never ends well for the people who do anyways."

"I'm a Californian," he adds as if ignoring my obvious anger.

"Neato," I say, exasperated. Honestly, I could not care less where he's from.

"How did they recruit you?"

 _Um, no way kid_ , "It's a long and heartfelt story of which you would not want to hear, I am sure."

"We have a lot of time."

"You're just trying to get information to put in your little documents so you can keep tabs on  _all_  of the trainees, so go to hell."

"Ah, I see. We misunderstand one another."

"Really? Well it would help mucho mass if you would explain to me what you want rather than leaving me to guess at your ambiguous questions."

"You're good with computers, I can tell already, and I want your help."

"With what? Penetrating all the layers of SHIELD's firewall so we can take over the whole system through their computers. Sorry, no can do."

"No, I don't mean that, I mean that if we work together, we can figure out more things than if we worked alone."

"What would I want to figure out? I'm happy with the situation as it is."

"Don't tell me you don't have questions, Keira."

This stops me. Of course I have a lot of questions, but what could working past SHIELD's firewalls do to change that? What could infiltrating possibly the most secure government run organization do to give me answers? Oh that's right, because it is the  _only_  one that has any information on me. The one with the most actually, and that is a very powerful weapon over my head. If I can have an assured means already in place of being able to completely erase any existence of myself so that it will be as if none of this nightmare with SHIELD had ever happened. Now  _I_  will have a weapon over their heads, a double cross if anything goes wrong. I'm sure that if I can bypass their mainframe without falling into any traps or tripping across any wires that will set off alarms, I can keep my intrusion secret. Then all it would take is a simple software to be installed that would allow me to erase the files with a single touch of the keys. I'm sure I can use Ortuso's methods of hacking, coupled with my own, and use them behind his back, serving him, but mostly my own purposes.

Suddenly, partnering with Ortuso doesn't seem like such a bad idea. It's a delicate game, but I know I can play it.

"I'll work with you, Ortuso, but on one condition," I say, cautiously.

"Listening," he responds, watching me intently.

"If we are going to be partners, I'll need complete guarantees that we are working together and you aren't going behind my back," a little bit of irony since I had decided to double cross  _him_ , but being a guttersnipe off the streets, I know how to be ruthless.

"That is all very good, but how do I know _you_  aren't going behind  _my_ back?" he retorts

"Simple, my condition will go both ways. We merely have to have complete access to each other's work and files, keeping everything public between us, linking our systems so we know the other cannot make something private, that is related to work of course, without the other being noted. No tricks, no lies, just straight honesty."

He debates a moment. I can see the wheels turning in his head, assessing, probing, analyzing any possible double cross, but he can't see any. That is because he's thinking along the lines of progressing, that I would screw him over to elevate myself above him, using the advantage to bypass him and leave him in the dust. But what he doesn't take into consideration, and I know he won't, is that by the time his system noted him of any of my activity, I would be long gone and my files erased.

He holds his hand out, offering it as a sign of friendship, mutual trust, and partnership. But I know that if you are from the streets, deals and double-crosses fall down every day and betrayal is rampant.

I reach back and grip his hand tightly, a façade to both of us. That is all it could ever be. He gives me a grin for the first time and I give him one back, but I can see lies behind his eyes, and I know he can see ones behind mine. We will never trust, ever.

 _Be careful, Keira_ , the little voice warns in my head. For once, I don't silence it.

 _Don't worry, by the time we are gone he'll still be wondering what hit him_ , I promise. I grin just a little bit bigger, laughing at my own wonderful scheme


	11. Cut From the Same Cloth

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I pull the string back, feeling the familiar tension run up and down my back and core, holding the arrow in place. I lock eyes on the target, focusing on that and only that, my one goal. I release. It hits dead center. As usual.

You would think that after years of only pulling a string back and letting an arrow fly that it would become monotonous, but never for me. I would go insane without it, just like Natasha would without her spar. All those ghosts floating around in your head, you can't deal with it unless you have a stress reliever, and usually a very violent one. There is almost always a mission. Then you just create more ghosts, and then you shove them down with the rest and it's a never ending cycle until you wish you could shrivel up and die inside. But you harden up and bear it, passing the post-mission-psych-analysis like a breeze, or you would be "unfit for service" and sent home, except you don't have a home. All you know is the training gym, the intel, and the mission. It's like a drug you can't get off of, and there is no rehab for it. The twisted irony is, they don't diagnose it as a drug because they need us. They need us to do the dirty work.

I decide to focus on more congenial matters for the time being. I think of Keira. She's doing phenomenally well. She's progressing and thriving even more than I anticipated, eating her way through five languages (Russian, French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese while she already knew Latin. She is currently working on German) calculus, all the core subjects, many odd skills that are often more useful on missions than one would think (such as lip reading, sign language, body language, lock picking, which she already had been scarily proficient in from her years of theft, and explosives), military tactics, interrogation, shooting, long distance shooting, all forms of marksmanship, many types of acrobats, kick boxing, straight boxing, jui jitsu, taekwando, ninjustu, aikido, muay thai, karate, fist fighting, and one of Keira's favorites, taekkyeon, which has a fluid and dancelike movement which appeals to her years of dance. She is also memorizing maps upon maps upon maps of high security terrorist located terrain in Pakistan, Iran, Israel, she memorizes complete blue prints of buildings, able to retrace them to the T with a photographic memory, baffling the trainers. Her AI has gotten to a point of sophistication that the trainers' software is starting to not being able to control it since it is just simply smarter than their own programming. Basically saying, Keira is smarter than the trainers, and she knows it. They grapple frantically with her and Nathan's attempts to infiltrate their systems. As far as they know, they are able to keep them at bay without the kids knowing that they are paying no more attention to them as they would a gnat, but I know they know better.

This train of thought brings up a whole conversation that happened nearly seven months ago

"Agent Barton, report," I heard Hunter through the com line.

Five minutes later, I was in the geek room (deck something or whatever) with a very irate Agent Hunter.

"Barton, tell me why your new recruit and the most uncooperative, truculent, and aberrant trainee have formed a merry alliance in the realm of Sherwood duct system?" she said heatedly motioning to a computer monitor. So the spinster does have a sarcastic side, even if it's when she's angry.

I skirted around her and stared at the footage. It seemed to have come from a security camera in Keira's barrack. Hunter started the video, and I saw Keira with her desk on her lap, intently studying the information in the file before her, her dark eyebrows pulled together in concentration and the slight angle of her jaw as she unconsciously bit her tongue.

Suddenly, she looked up and I saw the all-too-familiar startled look in her eye. From the angle of the security cam, all you saw was the screen falling to the floor, but not the wall it fell from. The security cam is on night vision in the dark room, so I could easily see a person fall with the screen.

I felt a strange twist in my gut when I saw a boy gag Keira, rendering her helpless, gagging, and coughing. This is the reason I'm training her, I reminded myself, so nothing like this has to happen. So she can react within a split second's time. I watched as they disappear into the ventilation shaft, going who knows where. SHIELD didn't bug and videotape the ventilation shafts. I had a feeling they might start.

The footage stopped and Agent Hunter turned to me with her arms crossed. "Right after that, they went to her room, pulled their desks out, and worked all through the night. We caught a virus trying to breach our systems, and it bulldozed through the first five firewalls, and was minutes away from breaking the sixth and last when our techs caught it. They were scrambled all night trying to reroute all the attacks, but our communications went down for an hour." She slammed her fist into the desk, rattling everything on it, "an HOUR Barton! That does not happen here! We were never able to get past their mainframe and identify the source of the virus, no, they're too good for that, but you and I BOTH know exactly where it came from!"

"Yeah?" I questioned.

"So what are we going to do!?" she almost shrieked. I'd never seen her this… incensed.

"Nothing," I responded calmly.

"Nothing? So what, we let them infiltrate our systems, let them march right in and take over our command center?" she asked, staggered.

"No, we don't. Don't you understand? This is a golden opportunity to observe both of them. They are playing the game they both decided to play, so let's play it with them. Try to find out what they want to find out, try to analyze their attacks, better learning how to counter them. Why did they decide to team together out of all the other children on this base? Did you ever ask yourself that? Maybe, if you learn how to control them, you will learn how to use them as a team, and I can assure you, if they were able to all THAT damage in one night, they would probably be the most effective team SHIELD has recourse to after their training is finished. Let them learn to think on their own, but start training them as a team, working efficiently and ruthlessly to get the mission done."

"So you want me to turn a blind eye to their crimes, and then hand them over to you like toys to do what you want?" she sneered.

God help me! I thought. "That's not what I said."

She deliberated, obviously questioning my sanity. This is the most eccentric and unorthodox move this training center had done in a long while.

"Keira isn't even following the normal curriculum, so why are you trying to stay in the bounds of what we do with all the other trainees? She is obviously smarter, and the boy compliments her even more while she compliments him, rising each other far above anything the past graduates have accomplished."

She paused a moment more. "Fine," she snapped, "we'll do this your way."

Since then, Keira's education flourished as she learned all the classroom subjects in her pod and through her AI, while I train her physically in the gym. We barely speak past me coaching her. She doesn't ask, and I don't push. She probably has no idea how much I govern her life. I can't help but grin a little bitterly at the thought. She sees me for hours upon hours, but any feeling of our closeness from her months of quarantine is gone, and that's how I want and need it. I'm her mentor, not her babysitter.

I look down as I grope at an empty quiver and realize I shot all fifty of my arrows. I slowly walk down the shooting range and yank them one by one out of the bristling target.

My thought drifts to the boy, Nathan Ortuso. I viciously yank at an unoffending arrow, irritated with my train of thought.

After that conversation with Hunter, I have been entertaining the idea of training Ortuso, part time I guess you could say. He's like an added bonus to Keira, and they seem attached at the hip. Whenever they aren't training, they are together, eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or hacking systems in their barracks. I've watched him, and I gotta hand it to the kid, he's a wizard with explosives and traps. He needs some shoring up on his hand-to-hand (SHIELD's standard is crap, in my opinion, but these kids are being trained to be soldiers, not elite assassins. There's a big difference) but I can tell it will never be his strong point. He works better at distance fighting, while Keira excels in close combat.

But they are still so similar. Too similar.

That's what aroused my attention four months; that they were uncannily similar. Even their styles of talk were similar. I knew there was no way they could not be related in some way, shape, or form.

I used my clearance and got blood samples of Keira and Ortuso, sending them to the geek for tests and identification. He complied, after a few well-placed threats, but the Intel takes months to process. I'm still waiting.

Nothing seems right about this situation. First off, the chances of those two meeting up as if they were long lost twins? It makes no sense. The statistical likelihood of that is zero. It takes the best of the best to make it into SHIELD Recruit Academy, but Keira didn't even make it in the regular way. I found her and brought her in for her talent. SHIELD found Ortuso and brought him in for his brains. Both off the street, both oddly similar.

Keira has flourished here, no one can deny that. She's thrived even more than I anticipated. More than I anticipated.

It's like she was bred for this. This militaristic and grueling schedule, this hostile environment, these loads of information. She soaks all of it up as if it was a cinch. As if she were a dry ground, begging for water.

And no one noticed it before?

What about her mother? Keira was homeschooled, right? She was obviously extremely talented in acrobats, but she never made a name for herself when she could easily have been the best gymnast, or dancer, in the world. Why not? Because she was held back by something or someone. I asked her why she had never taken self-defense before. She shrugged and told me her mother never wanted her to. Keira is so smart, she could have graduated from college (she showed me a forged ID and the degree she got from Harvard Law with it. The purpose was more irony than anything, since she was the one breaking the law) when she was thirteen, but her mother never let her. I see a pattern. Her mother almost seemed to know Keira was amazingly talented, yet she did nothing. She kept Keira back as if to protect her from… what? From the lime light. It seems as if she didn't want Keira to be famous or well known. What mother wants this for their kid?

Of course, I can't assume anything until the tests come back, and I'm itching from inactivity.

I just have to wait, like I always do.

* * *

 

**Keira's P.O.V.**

Computers. I never see the end of them. I have not gone outside of this wretched facility for seven months. I don't feel caged in the way that I don't get enough stimulation or activity. As a matter of fact, I finally am feeling challenged. Finally someone is presenting me with material that gives me a dare to be even better. But I feel as if I'm completely cut off from the outside world. No contact, no information, nothing. Dead silence.

I want to know what is happening, which is why Ortuso and I are working together right now on my cot.

Ortuso and I have developed more of a relationship than I ever expected. Sometimes I even forget I'm trying to double cross him and that I shouldn't be surprised if he's trying to double cross me. We don't need the petty friendships that normal, small people going about their small, everyday lives need in relationships. We don't need words, but we banter. We don't need each other to survive, and yet we can't seem to leave each other. It's odd. I don't even understand it yet.

Today, we are bombarding SHIELD's protective system around the trainee's desks. If we can get past it, then we can hook up to a satellite and get internet, news, and intel from the outside world. After all, a nuclear crisis could be happening five miles away from us and we wouldn't know about it. This doesn't sit well with either of us paranoid freaks.

"I'm through the first firewall," he murmurs.

"Of course you are," I retort, "their security is downright shitty."

"Then why haven't we hacked it yet?" he shoots back.

"Because, even though their security is shitty, their techs are not, and we are giving them a full time job trying to bypass their mainframes."

The corners of his mouth turn down and his eyebrows rise up, tilting his head slightly to show he agrees with my point. "How far are you in on bouncing the signal?"

We've created a system, he infiltrates and I bounce our signal, hiding our server from the techs. Though, I'm sure they hypothetically know who is infiltrating, but if they don't have any concrete evidence against us they can't hurt us.

"Fine, but they are already starting the trace. They're getting faster, we only breached the first firewall and they are on our tail."

"Then let's hightail it outta here."

"дрянной, Ortuso," I respond, a little annoyed, in Russian.

"You're just showing off," he retorts.

I grin; neither of us has lifted our eyes from our screens, "Not many people learn five languages in seven months."

"Watch it, Matheson. I can almost see the extension of your head," he says, shooting me a side glance for the first time.

"You watch it, Ortuso. You're in my room on my bed. I could kick your ass."

"I never denied it," he says with a small shake of his head and a lift of his eyebrows.

"Mmhmm," I murmur. The train of our conversation is bringing up unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts that have been running circles in my head for hours upon hours. In simply seven months, I've already started to become a killing machine. It scares me. Slowly, the marks of my previously "soft life" are fading. The muscles in my abdomen have developed and my arms and legs are toned to perfectly sculpted muscles. The rigorous military constant workouts have had their effect. I remember the first few weeks, which were hell. I collapsed into my rock hard cot every night, my eyes watering with pain from the welts, bruises (which were chronically all over my body until about the last month when I started finally being able to somewhat protect myself in Hawkeye's and my spars. The bruises are currently fading to a purpley blue and greenish yellow on my cheek bones, ribs, and limbs), unbearably stinging muscles, and sheer exhaustion which still threatens me. I spend nearly all my time with Ortuso, I have no one else to spend the time with, and if I tried to stay away from him, he would notice. We spend most of our time together through the nights, working on our hacking since that is the only free time we have. We usually separate with enough time to get a few hours of sleep in until our day starts.

Unfortunately, those hours are filled with my attempts at hacking SHIELD's main database undetected. While SHIELD training security is really shitty, the firewalls for the main data base are not. They were nearly impossible to find in the first place, but after Ortuso and I were able to hack the communications, we were able to get a direct link from the training center to the main base, even though they kicked us out after thirty minutes. But we still have the link. It's hard without Ortuso's help and outside point of view, nevertheless, I have made fairly good progress without detection. I know I'm successful so far, otherwise they would immediately shut me down. This isn't our little game of war that Ortuso and I are playing, I'm getting myself into serious shit, but I know I can play the game. Even so, I get minimal sleep, and most nights, none at all. I can't remember what it felt like to sleep a full night.

Well, I can, but they seem like a dream, or a nightmare. The last time I slept for days on end was in SHIELD medical. Just the thought of those months makes me want to either scream or hide under a rock. Those months of being a prisoner, I think, really messed with my head. And Hawkeye, the old Hawkeye, is back.

Now, I'm not saying I want roses and rainbows, but it would help a whole damn lot if the bastard would act as if... as if I was something more to him than a weapon that he is crafting and sharpening in the forge. It's as if all those weeks in medical didn't happen, all the hunting on the streets of New York didn't happen, as if he knows nothing about me. He even looks at me with this calculating gaze, trying to figure out what my greatest advantage is, what my skills are, what my fears are, how much he can get out of me every day. I feel like my humanity means nothing to him anymore. Maybe that will all change after training, maybe I'll finally have the Clint Barton I know (but wouldn't say love, that damn bastard) back.

Why did I even start to trust him? Because, if I'm completely honest with myself and peel away all the layers of prejudices, fears, and mistrusts (which I have had more than enough time to do over the past months), I admired the son of a bitch. Indirectly and in serious denial the whole way, but I know I did. I admired everything about him, and, though the thought brings a scowl to my face, he made me feel safe. For one moment in my life, I finally met someone who was stronger than me, faster than me, more experienced than me, and maybe even smarter than me, but noticed me at the same time. He cared for me. He hunted me down until he found me, never relenting, and he was there all those months in medical (even though he was the reason I was there in the first place. It's twisted) and he was there when I had that horrible relapse. He was the one who dragged me out of my internal prison I had created. He was the one who brought me to this life, and all of a sudden, he's gone. Not even gone as in not around, which would almost be better, but it feels as if the Clint Barton I knew was kidnapped by aliens and replaced with a cynical, driving, calculating, blood chilling replica. But what scares me, is that's what I thought he was in the beginning when he was hunting me. But after medical, I thought that it was my own fear that had distorted my perception, and that all along he was really the Clint Barton I knew, but now he's reverted back to his old self, and I know my perception is fine now.

Did he trick me? Did he hide his true self all those months? Did I fall into a trap that he carefully laid out, taking advantage of my weaknesses? Am I being played?

But I have no time for these stupid emotions. At least, that's their plan. I'm so busy night and day that all I can do is stuff these feelings deep down where I can't feel them. I have to forget, and honestly, no one cares for my emotions, least of all me. That doesn't mean I can't stop feeling them, I just have to learn to channel them into my training, to take my anger out on a punching bag, to channel my frustration into a spar, to focus on the exact form of my flip while seething with annoyance.

I can feel my sanity on the line. The few hours of sleep I do get are haunted with dreams of the girl, that one girl I saw being killed before my eyes during the alien invasion, the kid Jackson, but instead of being alive and well, he is covered in blood, his sightless eyes rolled back in their sockets, and horrible mutilations all over his body. I always fall, sobbing, to my knees to wrap my arms around him, until my own forearms and hands come into view and they are covered in blood. His blood, and a knife is in my hand.

Blue rings like bruises have formed under my eyes and the muscles around them sag exhaustedly. I cannot hold this pace up much longer, but that is not up for me to decide. It's up to SHIELD, or should I say, Hawkeye. I know he thinks I think that he is a minor part in my life here (as minor as being my only trainer in the whole facility), but I know different. There are too many consistencies in my curriculum, too many interferences, too many patterns that are too subtle to explain, but I know it's him. If he wants me to be ignorant, though, I'll play ignorant.

"Shoot," I hear Ortuso breathe, immediately startling me out of my thought process.

"Did they block you?"

"Yep, we're back to step one, but I got some new Intel. It looks as if their hardware has a backup system that, if tripped, will set off—"

I tune him out from then on, focusing on my own thoughts, letting them take whatever random turn they wish.

I find myself reflecting over SHIELD as an organization in general. What do I know of them? Well, they are a covert government run agency with elite assassins, but that does not seem to be their specialty. While they might plot an assassination once in a while, along with an undercover mission, they're scope is bigger than, say, the FBI or the CIA. They work with the extraterrestrial, with the superhuman, with the mutants, with monsters and magic, with things that shouldn't even be on Earth.

But you gotta hand it to them, they are the epitome of time efficiency. If there is one thing that I have learned from them, it is that every second of the day counts, and if planned efficiently, the amount of work you can get done is mind blowing. If the average worker understood the exact amount of time that goes into the slightest distraction and the addition of those distractions throughout the day, they would see that about five hours of the day is spent on those trivial distractions. Heck, SHIELD has even systematized times into my schedule of when to use the bathroom calculated on when I eat and drink and how fast my metabolism is, which has all been recorded to the millimeter by medical. Also, everyone's diet here is strictly regulated. We are only allowed a certain amount of water at specific times based on our amount of exercise and perspiration, and our food is given to us in the exactly right amount of calories designed to keep us in our pinnacle of fitness.

"You're spacing out on me again. Time to call it quits. See ya tomorrow," he says as he hops off my bed. He's starting to know me too well and no doubt saw my spacy-ness.

"Sorry, I'm running on excess calories," I sigh, running stiff fingers through my snarled dark hair.

"No problem. We'll get back at it tomorrow," he says as he smiles tiredly down at me from where he stands. His smile morphs into a concerned look, "Keira, are you sure you're ok?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? You don't look so good," he pushes.

"Ortuso, leave me alone," I snap with a viscous undertone in my voice.

He holds his hands up with a mock startled look that is meant to throw me off from the frustration I know is behind his mask. "Sorry I asked."

I immediately feel remorseful for snapping at him, but this vexes me even more, so I don't apologize. "You're forgiven," I respond with a nastily sarcastic sneer.

"Gosh woman, get some sleep," he retorts, but I can hear genuine hurt in his voice. I sigh. I shouldn't be close enough to hurt him. We shouldn't know each other well enough that my own health matters to him. This was never part of the plan. He was supposed to be a tool, not a friend. I lean forward and rub my forehead, wondering how my life got so screwed up.

I hear the slight clang of metal as he enters the vent shaft. I jerk my head up and open my mouth, but there is no one there. Damn, he's getting faster. "I'm sorry," I whisper before falling onto my sheets and burying my head in my pillow.

I take deep, harsh breathes, trying to calm the intense feeling rising in my throat that threatens to choke me. I pound my bruised fist into the stupid pillow, trying to vent some of my feelings into the upholstery, but I start choking. I gasp, suffocating the dense fabric, but I can't lift my head and show them my shame. I know I am on constant observation, and I can't let them see my weakness. Before I know it, I pass out from sheer exhaustion.


	12. A Gamble

I feel sweat and adrenaline drench my entire body. My sweat pants and shirt are soaked while my fists feel sweaty and heavy in my boxing gloves. I raise them to my cheekbones, flipping my dark hair from sticking to my face. The punching bag in front of me sways slightly from my last assault.

"Move!" Barton's annoying voice barks behind me.

I breathe sharply, blink, and slightly widen my eyes all at the same time in a face of annoyed exasperation.  _I paused for one moment, and you're already up my ass._ I conveniently pretend the punching bag is Hawkeye's face and attack it like it's the devil. I throw all the force in my body at the bag, gritting my teeth and punching it over and over and over again with haywire and indirect punches. I currently don't really care about the accuracy; I just want to beat the  _shit_  out of anything right now. My face contorts into an expression of pain, fury, frustration, desperation, and all the intense emotions I've been feeling lately. I feel myself start to lose control on my carefully bottled up feelings and my vision begins to tunnel. The bag no longer represents a training tool; it's the injustice and unfairness I've been feeling. No matter how many times I punch it over and over and over again, it stays right there, as unaffected by my brutality as if I was never even here. This infuriates me to an incensed rage that consumes all my thought, focus, and sense. My vision is completely red. If possible, I throw myself into the bag even more, completely using my all-consuming, seething rage to hurl myself onwards. I am no longer just using bone-shattering punches, but bone-snapping kicks as well. I integrate all different kicks, punches, and any other type of defense I know into a rhythm that is brutally and gruelingly mollifying. I smile in a sick and twisted sense of pleasure as my red tunnel vision grows even more intense.

Suddenly, it isn't the bag in front of me anymore, it's Hawkeye. I gasp in shock, feeling his rough hands capture my wrists. Swiftly I just catch him making a leg swipe at my knees. Without thinking, I jump over his kick and twist my wrists to get out of his grip. His eyes darken when he sees my resistance and his grip turns into iron bands.

All at once, my hearing returns in a tingling roar.

" _Keira_!" he thunders in a voice that makes me falter. Suddenly, I blink and my tunnel red vision dissipates along with my fury, betraying me to be so much more fragile, smaller, and weaker compared to the menacing man in front of me.

I see his next move coming, but I'm so disoriented I don't try to resist. He twists my wrist behind me, forcing me to whip around and give him my back so he doesn't snap either my ulna or my radius clean in half (both being bones that connect the forearm to the many little bones that make the wrist, some of which are the pisiform, scaphoid, lunate, I could go on). He kicks my knees from under me, forcing me to kneel with my back leaning at an odd angle backwards and my arm twisted at an even  _odder_  angle behind me. His other hand grabs my hair, yanking my head back painfully putting even more strain on my arm and back.

I grit my teeth as I stare up at the ceiling and claw at his hand in my hair with my own free hand. I'm able to work my fingers under one of his and yank on it, but he's too strong for me when all I am using is my muscle strength and no leverage while he has superior muscle strength  _and_  perfect leverage.

"When I give you the order to stop,  _you are going to stop or I will be damn sure to make you scream in pain until you will never disobey my orders again_ ," he hisses in my ear.

At any other time, his deadly promises would make me doubt his sanity, but I'm so confused right now it has almost no effect on my already-maxed-to-the-limit inner turmoil. All I can think is _what…the…hell…?_   _How_  did I completely  _lose_  it? The amount and intensity of my frustration and anger scares me. I could've killed  _anyone_  at that given moment without a second thought. And to be honest, right now I'm  _flip shit scared._

"Cl—Clint?" I gasp, blinking back tears of remorse and shame for being brought so low, but also, terror of myself.

I let myself go completely slack in his grip, unconsciously forcing him to let me go or the extra strain would break my arm. He drops me as if I was on fire and I roll a few feet away from him. I just lay there, one arm trapped under my stomach and the other curled in a fist by my head.

"How… how long was I… unresponsive?" I manage to ask through harsh breathes.

He doesn't answer.

I lift my head, but no one is there. Immediately my guard goes up. I don't let my eyes leave the spot where he was standing, but immediately all my senses hone in around me. I become hyper aware of sounds, movement, and shifts in air currents. Even the most deadly silent spy cannot be completely undetectable simply because of the mass of their bodies and the rules of physics. Hawkeye taught me that the painful way.

I feel a shift behind me and stiffen, but don't move. I don't know what he's playing, but I'm going to compliant as hell after the slip-up meltdown he just watched me preform. I know he caught my little move and knows I know he is behind me. Even the smallest body language tips him off, and call it pride, but I want him to know that I'm just as good as he is. That he can't slip around me anymore.

Two calloused hands grasp my shoulders from behind and drag me to my feet. I could think of five different ways to get out of his grip, but I don't act. If I think about it too much, it's a little scary.  _Seven months_  and I've already fine-tuned my skills of observation, detection, and examination of my surroundings. I may not be able to best Hawkeye in a fight yet, but my mind works at a ridiculously fast pace and that is the  _only_  reason I am able to keep up with his spars at all. I quickly learned that even though some people may be much bigger than me (it doesn't take much considering my impressive height of 5'), they will underestimate me and use brute force. They think with their muscles since their minds do not have the capacity to keep up in a fight. I, however, am easily able to best them from sheer outsmarting. I am able to pull off stunts or tricks that no one would think of because the outcome does not look positive, but since my mind works at an accelerated pace, I am able to analyze all the plausible outcomes of any situation and the statistical likelihood of any move I make in a matter of milliseconds.

Like I said, if I think about it too much it freaks me out.

The only problem is, Hawkeye does the same. I learned the trick from him indirectly. I simply watched him as he attacked me and found his tactics by spotting patterns. Of course, I can tell his mind doesn't work at the same frequency of mine, but he has experience, and he fights smart.

Right now, I feel his iron grip on my upper arms and stand rigidly stiff, staring straight ahead.

His low voice next to my ear makes me want to bolt. "You were angry," he whispers.

"No  _shit_ ," I respond wryly with an eye roll.

" _Never_  fight angry," he says darkly, "it clouds your judgment and gives the enemy a distinct advantage over you. Learn to channel that anger to clear your thoughts instead." He pauses and I immediately stiffen even more. I can feel the tension spike in the air the same way it does before a major storm. He's about to deliver some sort of verbal punch that I do  _not_  want to hear. "You are angry at me."

_That_  was unexpected. I thought he would be a bit more subtle about it. Is it really that obvious?

"I'm angry at a lot of things, Hawkeye," I respond warily. I don't want to give him too much, he's getting into to my personal space (figuratively) and I don't trust him enough to let him that close again.

Suddenly, he spins me around to face him and I still eye him suspiciously. He looks exactly the same as that first fateful day in Manhattan when he first found me. With his already intense eyes even more intense with adrenaline and his hair slightly spikey and plastered against his forehead with sweat, I feel like I was transported in a time machine.

"You're angry with me because you feel none of this is fair. You feel abandoned. You think that you were dragged here out of your old life, and now SHIELD has simply forgotten all about you 'cause you didn't cut it. You think that your worst dreams are coming real. The big agency used you up, and now they are going to throw you out. You're scared, and you don't know how to handle it."

I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his words. They sting. They sting like alcohol poured on a cut. My head whips to the side as if I had been slapped. I can't look at him. Maybe if I pretend he's gone, that I'm anywhere else, that what he's saying isn't true, it won't hurt as much. And I'm right. As soon as I get a grip and stuff down my emotions, pretending that what he's saying is ridiculous, the pain subsides to a dull ache deep in my chest. This kind of pain I can, and know how, to deal with. I almost breathe a sigh of relief and my face instantly relaxes.

But I forgot Hawkeye was watching me.

And he's called Hawkeye for a reason.

Suddenly, a gut wrenching shake pulls me out of my inner havoc and when my eyes snap open I come face to face with a very pissed looking Clint Barton. His sniper eyes are dark and penetrating with rage, so much so that it is hard for me to stare him straight in the eye. I try to avert my gaze, but he just shakes me even harder.

I gasp, my upper arms pinned to my body, but with the limited mobility of my lower arms, I shove them against his chest, trying to push him away from me. Trying to push his inquiring mind, his sharp gaze, his too smart guesses, and his scarily correct assumptions all away from me. Trying to protect myself from the pain I know I'll feel if he is hell bent on dragging everything from me.

"Stop," he orders, his voice deceptively calm, but I see the rage in his eyes.

"Stop what? I'm not even doing anything," I mutter, trying to look at the ground.

"You  _know_  what you're doing," he emphasizes with a slight shake. He is holding my shoulders so tense that only the tips of my toes are still touching the floor. "You're shutting down. I can see you stuffing it away. You don't want to feel the pain, so instead of facing it you  _run_ ," he says, his voice intonation, rising and falling with force and intensity.

"I'm not a coward!" I shout, squeezing my eyes shut again, but this time to keep something in, not something out. Tears. I need to keep the tears in. Tears are a drop of clear, salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when the eye is irritated, nothing more. Weak people use them to show signs of distress, but that is not what they are for. They are meant to wash out the irritation in the eye, not to show deep emotions that well up from the soul. Maybe that's why those weak people use them, because when they cry, they subconsciously think that those tears will serve the same purpose for their troubles as they do for their eye. Maybe, the tears will wash away all the problems of their little world, leaving a clean slate. But the problem with that is you can drown in your tears as well.

I need to keep the tears at bay. They show weakness. They show fear. They show frailty. In my world, there is no room for any of these. I let out a gasp as if I'm drowning in water. There is a burning in my chest. A burning need for air, but I'm suffocating. The tears are right behind my defenses, but I can't decide whether those defenses are strong or extremely weak. One crack in them, however, and a floodgate would be forced open.

"I never said you were," he murmurs, a drastic difference in his tone than before. It stabs me in the heart like a rusty knife. That is the Clint I remember. The one that cared for me enough to follow me to the ends of the earth to find me. This is my mentor.

But it's just enough to get my barricades to crack.

Suddenly, rage boils inside my chest. He's about to break my walls, and the fact that he's so close to doing it makes me get a grip on myself.  _No one_  is able to break my walls, not even my mentor.

I take a single breath before galvanizing into action without even a second thought. I brace my legs firmly on the floor as leverage, twisting myself around. I feel his grip tighten, as expected, but my move has already crossed his arms at an odd angle, giving me the advantage in kinesthetic leverage, despite my smaller size, over his superior strength.

I am still twisting, and I bend backwards, slipping between the gap of his arms before I twist completely and close it on myself. I feel his hands slip and I twist my hips around so I can catch my formerly moving backwards weight now forwards and in a lunge.

I use the lunge to push off the ground. I feel my legs go completely straight as I launch into a front aerial, my back arching gracefully as I spot the ground in perfect posture. Just as I feel myself nearing the highest point in the flip, I twist so that I land facing forwards, towards Hawkeye's back.

Now I have positioned myself on Barton's five o'clock and I can see him in the motion of swinging around. I estimate I have about 0.67 seconds before he turns around completely and a full 1.04 seconds before he can throw the first punch. This gives me two options, 1. To go straight for him now as it will take me about 0.54 seconds for me to be able to hit a jump-spin-hook-kick on his head, which, by my reckoning, should knock him out for five minutes tops, unless, of course, he is able to block and then will most likely attempt a counter maneuver, 2. Turn around and run the other direction, jumping off the training bar 9.6 feet behind me and taking the higher ground in the rafters, giving me an advantage of being unseen and coming down on my opponent from above.

Both maneuvers would give me the equal amount of success at winning, though one would simply take longer and that in itself is a risk as the tables may turn in a matter of moments. Right now, I have the upper hand, so I decide to take this advantage. I push off the ground, relishing the feel of the floor being left far behind me and make a jump-spin-hook-kick straight for Clint's head. As I'm in the air, I see his muscles tense.  _Oh crap_.

I know before I even move that he can feel the shift in the air behind him. He crouches, making me miss him by an inch. I come down hard, uncalculated force driving me into the ground. I quickly side roll out of it, standing with ease only to see him coming straight at me with a roundhouse kick. I bend back like a rubber doll, letting his leg sail over the upper half of my body before snapping up countering with a simple right hook. This is child's play, but I get the feeling that neither of us is fighting to win in the most orthodox sense. He quickly responds with an absorption technic, blocking my punch, but then letting it follow through and using some of his own force to spin me around. I quickly switch to a grappling technic to keep myself from being swung around and giving him my back. I grab his arm, which is already conveniently close to me, and wrap one of my own arms around it, pulling it against my abdomen. At the same time, I slide down and forward, basically pulling Barton into himself as I slide to his right, my left next to his leg. He's forced to shoulder roll forward so I don't jam his knee and possibly tear his ACL. We end up on the floor and I wrap my legs around his shoulder, my boots resting on his chest, and I pull his arm up my body and jamming the elbow back into a deep armbar. But he's quick. Using his strength, he pushes past my leg hold and grabs his own hand, pulling it to resist my grip. I know that soon he will completely wrench from my grasp, but I hold on for dear life, my face contorting in effort and sweat dripping down my face.

This is where the fight matters. I have him on the ground with the advantage on my side. Right now I have to finish him or he will finish me. A plan darts into my mind, but it involves hurting him, which, if I'm completely honest, is only pricking the intellectual part of my conscience, not my emotion side. Frankly stating it, I want to hurt him. He's been a stupid S.O.B. and I want to make him suffer.

I viciously knee him in the face and he goes slack immediately with a cry of pain. I roll over to pin him, but I underestimated his reciprocal timing. A punch in my eye sends me reeling back with splashes of light exploding all around. I collapse against the mats, my world at a crooked angle. I open my good eye to a slit and shift my position the slightest to see the son of a bitch cupping his nose to staunch the bleeding at the same time as I try to get a grip on my spinning world. I see that I actually didn't miscalculate his rejuvenation ability, only his pain endurance. The punch was to muddle me in order to give him enough time to reciprocate.

Suddenly, all the fight drains from my body. I don't want to plan anymore. I don't want to think. I don't want to fight. I don't want to constantly be looking at Barton as a target I need to eliminate.

I slump forward tiredly, pushing myself into a sitting position and agonizingly dragging myself closer to him.

He sends me a glare, both of us wincing simultaneously as he resets his nose with a crunch. "Brat," he spits shooting bullets at me with his sniper eyes.

"Son of a bitch," I counter automatically, more focused on wincing as I tenderly probe the dark bruise forming around my swollen eyelid.

We sit in a comfortable silence as we both nurse our minor injuries. Neither of us is really hurt, I've taken a lot worse in the first few months of my  _imprisonment_ here.

I guess both of us have finally gotten  _things_  off our chest. I've had my dig at Barton and I don't know what his deal is, but he seems calmer already, too. For a moment, at least, we can simply enjoy each other's company. But a part of my gut is nagging, saying this is only the eye in the storm. I push it away. Even if it is, I need a respite. I finally do not have a storm of emotions raging, literally bottled up in my chest like a mini storm wrecked ship being tossed around in a bottle. Everything is calm. Everything is taken care of. I can breathe.

Slowly and agonizingly, Barton stands up, working out kinks in his shoulders, back, knuckles, and neck. I wince as their ear cracking pops echo around the painfully silent gym. Human bones were not made to snap like that.

Suddenly, I hear his trademark laugh, and I stiffen reflexively. Don't blame me, I've only ever heard him laugh bitterly when he finds something twisted, sickly, sadistically, or darkly funny. I let my gaze travel up to his face, which is half hidden from me by his broad shoulders, but from what I can see he is actually smiling.

He cracks his neck again and rolls his shoulders, jumping loosely like a track runner. I've never seen him look this young. A smile of genuine pleasure and something akin to stress relief is plastered on his face. His laugh is low, and closer to a chuckle, as if he finds something funny that would only be funny to him personally, but I've never heard him laugh just for the pleasure of it.

"Ok, who are you and what did you do with the real Clint Barton?" I scowl.

He doesn't respond, but lets out another laugh and extends a hand. I grasp it and let him pull me to my feet. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he claps my shoulder and, I swear, the bastard literally swaggers off.

"Well I'm glad everything's peachy for you," I mumble, turning away. I look at the clock. Still got two hours of gym time, but I'm getting the vibe that we're done for the day. I head back to my room and the halls are deadly silent. I smirk, remembering when I first came here and I was terrified to be caught alone somewhere in this massive compound. Well, the bullies came along once upon a time. They only needed one go-round before I earned a reputation. Sometimes I wonder of Ortuso just hangs around me for that. He's gotta admit, after that epic beating, no one has bothered him or me since.

Naturally, I got sent "to the principal's office," but I feel like I was immune to their punishment except for a major scolding, which I batted away like a fly. I'm guessing my immunity came from some benefit of being Hawkeye's renowned protégé. It didn't take people long. After they saw me constantly in his presence, they figured it out. Started calling me the Hawk's girl. I could care less. I let them build tales and lies around me, letting it protect me like an impenetrable wall, and one they built themselves no less. Of course, I don't plan on being here very long, but if these walls help my reputation when I get onto a SHIELD base, by all means, lay 'em on thick.

It's called playing smart. Something I learned from Ortuso.

Ortuso.

I grimace inwardly as my thoughts go in a full circle. That kid has gotten under my skin. I can't explain why. It's never happened to me before. Maybe it's because we are so similar, or because we both share some sort of weird connection. To be honest, a lot of people would call me a bitch, and I don't mind. But with Ortuso, it's different. I don't want to hurt him, and it irks me. I'm torn. I want to keep him at arms distance, only using him for my own purposes, but to do that I need to be around him nonstop, and the more time I spend with him, the closer we get. It's like some creepy force of nature drawing us together.

I hate it.

But knowing he's angry with me forms a lead weight in my chest that I know won't go away until I apologize.

I scowl, scuffing the wall with my standard-issue combat boots. But my scowl fades into a look of resigned martyrdom. Fine. I'll apologize the next time I see him. We're both each other has in this mini world in the compound of games and intrigue.

I reach my room and automatic door slides open when a laser face-recognition scans my eye.

"Hey Sif," I murmur as I walk in.

"Good to see you, as always. May I remind you, you are here on unauthorized entry. Your schedule dictates that you have another two hours, thirty-three minutes, and sixty-four seconds in physical training before your mental stimulation and military tactics, which go for five hours, and then languages for another three. I must assume that you know of your schedule and were dismissed, but I have no record of a permission slip for this date."

"Yeah, always good to see you too," I groan as I lower myself onto the cot.

"I am reading your vital signs and my readings say you have only drunk 32 oz. of water so far, and you are drastically low. May I suggest ordering another three cups from the cafeteria?"

"I feel fine," I mumble, closing my eyes. "I just need some rest. Dim lights and hold all notifications. Set alarm for mental stimulation and military tactics."

Sif finally shuts up and the lights dim. I lie in the dark, resting my eyes. I let my muscles slowly relax and feel the adrenaline from the spar slowly decreasing. It's like a high, and I've been running on it for the past eight months.

Even though I am seriously sleep deprived, my body is not used to inactivity in the middle of the day. I let my eyes close restlessly, feeling dead tired, but my mind runs at a hundred miles per hour. I focus on each part of my body, relaxing the muscles. Finally, I start to feel the dark fog of oblivion rest on my conscious.

* * *

**Hawkeye P.O.V.**

_"I just got a notification that I don't understand, and you better have a damn good explanation for it,"_  Director Fury's voice echoes ominously over the com line. I can just see his one eye glaring.

"Director Fury—"I start smoothly before being cut off.

_"Don't you dare 'Director Fury' me. I want to know why I'm giving authorization for a fifteen year old kid to go into the field after only eight months of training. Do you understand how much the Council is going to be up my ass if they catch wind of this?"_

"Yes sir, I take full—" I attempt to cut in again.

_"Ever since New York I have had to take more crap for you than your ass is worth! Hell, even before New York! You have always been one of our most volatile agents, but this? Are you mother f*ckin' kidding me? If this leaks in any way, this girl is so young Child Resources would be hounding after me. Despite what you might think, SHIELD is not above—"_

"I understand, Director, but Romanoff and I are your top agents. We do the impossible. If you need a job done, we'll do it in the hardest of circumstances, with no backup or extraction. But tell me this; who's going to get it done when we die? The life expectancy for this job is minimal. Sure, you've got good agents, like that upcoming one, what's his name? Ward? But he's still not at our level. You need someone to count on that can do the impossible, same as us. Now I'm going to hand her to you on a silver platter,  _but I need to do this my way_. She will be efficient, deadly, unbreakable, and unstoppable. Think of the benefits of having a third asset of that skill level. They don't come along every day, and they sure as hell don't come from the Recruit Academy. Not with the extent of her skills.

"You've already seen her scores. They are off the charts. Her intelligence is already at the level of some of your best techs. You know her physical capability. This is all with just a few short months of my training. Do you realize how much she is going to sky rocket when we start pushing her  _for real_?"

There is silence. I can hear him digesting my words. Finally a sigh breathes through the speaker. " _You're one son of a bitch, you know that? Fine, do whatever you want. I'll keep it quiet at this end. Just bring her back in one piece or I will—"_

"Director, this was already on me from the beginning." My voice carries a smug hint. A string of obscenities is hurled my way and I grim lopsidedly to myself, killing the com.

_Time for phase 2._

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I feel that cold, clammy sweat that sticks to your body after taking a nap in the middle of the day. It drenches my already stiff and uncomfortable muscles. I can feel the lack of calories and the complete exhaustion to the extent that it feels as if there is no heat left in my body. Everything is brittle. My eyesight is bleary and my entire body is shaky.

I stand unsteadily to my feet, trying to take enough steps towards my desk, but my muscles feel absolutely drained and they tingle in an unpleasant manner as I try to use them for simply walking, but they don't have the strength. I feel them collapsing on me so I end up tripping over my own feet and crumpling unceremoniously into my hard, desk chair.

I lean forward, laying my head on my knees and gripping it with my hands. I dry heave, but there is nothing in my stomach to come up. Not even water. I feel so cold all over. After three minutes of heavy breathing, I can finally straighten. I should probably go to medical for dehydration and malnutrition, but I would only go to medical if I was dying. I avoid that place like the plague. I reach for my desk and pull it to me. I catch my reflection on its dark surface. I look horrible.

My dark hair is pulled back into a frizzy ponytail and my cheeks are hollow. I have the constant dark bruises under my eyes, but now the left is magnified with a horribly swelled and welting bruise over my eyelid while the eye is swollen shut.

_Shoot. I forgot to ice that_.

_That's ok. You gave it to 'im good._

I smile crookedly at the remembrance of our spar, but the result is ghastly. I look like some zombie out of a horror film.

I quickly palm the screen, illuminating the room with the glow of the monitor and dispelling the awful image of me. The time comes up.

_Holy shit! I slept for seven hours!_

"Sif!" I choke out. "Why didn't you wake me up? I just missed all of my classes!"

"No need to be alarmed. I received an update from the Central Command. All classes are canceled and you are to be reassigned immediately. You are scheduled for departure at 0500 tomorrow. Based on your vital signs, you are sleep-deprived to the point of exhaustion. I thought it best to let you catch a few hours of rest before your travels," she states matter-of-factly.

I feel my body coming to life. Adrenaline begins pumping through my system once again. "Who asked you?! Never mind. Locate Agent Barton."

* * *

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I pack my minimal gear into the basic SHIELD duffel bag. I've lived out of these things for God knows how many years. Finally, eight months of itching inactivity is coming to an end.

"Agent Barton," a clipped voice states from my doorway.

"Always good to see you, Hunter," I mutter sarcastically. Did I mention the ecstatic freedom of finally getting away from Agent Hunter? Sometimes I'm convinced this woman my own personal hell put on earth as Divine Justice from Heaven.

"Look," she starts with a tone that makes me frown. I've never heard her speak except with a cold professionalism or like a dragon spitting incinerating words at me. Now, she seems… earnest. Weird. "I don't know what's going on with the recruit, and I'm not sure I want to know, but I saw your destination in the data log. I can only guess what you will be doing from there."

I straighten, but don't turn to face her. Great. Now I have another person breathing down my neck.

I hear her footsteps as she enters.

"Listen to me, I know what you think of her, and I know she's your responsibility. I won't get mixed up between you. But you have to remember Barton, she's only human."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked guardedly, turning to face her ice blue eyes.

"Look at her current vital signs." Hunter holds up a tablet with the reading of Keira's vitals being monitored by her suit, as all of the recruits are. "She is at the point of exhaustion. She is dehydrated. She is malnourished. It's a wonder she is even  _standing_. I don't even know how she's been making it the past few months with the beatings you've given her, or the mental strain she's been put under.

"Wake up, Barton! She's not superhuman. She's in no condition to be going where you are taking her! She should be in medical right now, not getting ready to fly half way across the world to confront one of the hardest challenges in her life, which is saying a lot considering what she has faced the past months. If she were any regular recruit, we would have hauled her ass down to medical three weeks ago, but just because she's under your supervision, she's untouchable." Hunter's jaw is clenched. I gaze back levelly. She takes a deep breath. "I don't know her, where she's from, or her limitations like you do, but there is something different about her. There is something else we don't understand going on here. By all rights, she should have broken long ago… I just… I don't understand…" Hunter trails off, staring at the ground. She sounds like she's talking to herself more than to me. Then her hard gaze travels back up to my eyes.

"Hunter…"I sigh, "you already know she's not a regular recruit, and I'm not going to treat her like one. She was meant for more. You're right, if she was normal, she  _would_  have broken months ago, but I know she can do this, because she isn't normal. I don't know what fusion of genes she was given and why nature formed them to make her the way she is, but I have never seen the like in a normal human being. There are no natural humans that come close to her level of ability. Romanoff? She's enhanced. Rogers? He's a super soldier for crying out loud. There is Agent May and Ward, but they took years of training. Keira is catching up to them fast and at sixteen too. Why was she built this way? Who knows, but I intend to take advantage of whatever bizarre fluke of nature made her the way she is."

I hear Hunter exhale and she purses her lips. She steps forward. We stare eye to eye. "Please, Barton… don't break her beyond repair."

My ears pick up on quick, light footsteps. I know that tread. It's light and soft, like the patter of a child's.

Hunter steps back, not breaking eye contact. I feel the tension defuse as if someone twisted a knob.

"BARTON! YOU SICK, LOW BASTARD!" I involuntarily wince at the sheer shrillness of her voice. I had no idea a girl's voice could get so high.

I look over Hunter's shoulder and see her stand, fuming, in the doorway. She pauses, seeing I'm not alone.

With one last glare, that I ignore, Hunter turns. "Recruit," she addresses professionally. The cold devil is back.

"Agent Hunter," Keira responds through gritted teeth. Oh boy, she just can't wait to get me alone.

As if reading my thoughts, Hunter smirks, turning to me and ignoring Keira for a moment. "Have fun with  _that_ ," before heading out the door.

Keira stands respectfully aside to let her superior pass, before turning back to me. Somehow, that respect for superior authority just doesn't seem to transfer from her mind to me.

"What the heck, Barton?" she hisses as soon as she is sure Hunter is gone.

"Yup," I clap my hands together, turning back to my gear, "we've got a big day tomorrow. Better get packing."

Nope. She won't drop it that easily.

" _Barton_ ,  _where are we going_?" she continues to hiss.

"I'm absolutely sure you already know where we are going."

" _Then WHAT are we DOING there?"_

I swing around, letting my features harden. I'm done playing good cop. "I'm your trainer, Keira. I call the shots. Where I say you go, you go without a question. What I say you do, you also do without question. You learn to accept the information given to you and you learn to work with it. This is your first lesson."

I turn around, ignoring her now. I start packing, acting like I'm not aware of her existence, but actually monitoring her reaction carefully. Her breathing is harsh and I can feel her narrowed gaze on the back of my head. She doesn't like being in the dark. She doesn't trust enough to simply follow orders and not know the various factors and consequences of her actions on the big scale. But she has to learn if she wants to work for SHIELD. She has to learn to accept hierarchy if she wants to survive here. She has to adapt.

I wait, expecting her to either snap, or become compliant. The seconds tick by.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

Finally I hear it. She lets out an infuriated breath and turns heel, stalking away. I smile crookedly. First lesson down.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

_Oh dear Lord, I hate this!_  We are on our way to  _Syria_  and I have no idea why. Is it a mission? Am I being tested? Are they monitoring me?  _What_  is going _on_?

"Calm breaths, Keira. I'm sure it's just… a small intel gathering… stakeout. Yeah, just a stakeout. And then we'll go get coffee… in Syria… do Syrians have good coffee?  ** _Turkish coffee_** _is a method of preparing coffee. Roasted and then finely ground coffee beans are boiled in a pot (cezve), usually with sugar, and served in a cup where the grounds are allowed to settle. This method of serving coffee is found in the Middle East, North Africa, the Caucasus, the Balkans, Bali, and various locations within Eastern Europe,_ " my brain helpfully lists off. "Turkish better be good or… or…  _oh crap!"_  I suddenly just need to get out of this place. I throw down the clothes I was packing into the SHIELD duffel bag and look around desperately for an escape.

I feel another panic attack coming. I know myself well enough. I feel that familiar welling in my throat that wants to take over all other parts of me. My mind. My emotions. My reason. My body.

I don't panic. I  _won't_  panic.

My cornered mind searches for the one place I know is safe. The duct system. With frantic movements, I curl my fingers around the vent and yank it off, letting it clatter to the floor and then wiggling up into the shaft, I start crawling in the dark. It's soothing. There is no noise up here, just me. I take a couple turns, not really paying attention to where I'm going. I let my mind go blank. If I start to think, I might just go insane. I'm beginning to doubt my ability to cope with the stress.

I blink as I unexpectedly find a vent and the light filters through and stings my sore eyes. But it's welcome. I curl my fingers around the bars and lift my head to the light, letting it pierce through the dim haze of my conscience. Opening my eyes, I look down to find I have wandered above one of the training rooms. This is a large one filled with recruits. I don't know which unit they are, but they must be the older ones. My guess is the eighteen-year-olds.

They are practicing fighting technics with a number of instructors. I've never been in a unit, but it looks interesting. I watch, feeling small and tiny through the vent. They are focused, they are good. The guys are all tall and well-built. The girls are slightly more feminine versions of Agent Hunter, but all are strong and capable. The shortest one is probably five inches taller than me.

I study their technics. They are learning and practicing ones I learned a month ago. Suddenly, I wonder. They are all so much bigger, so much more experienced. Why am  _I_  the one getting special attention? I'm fast, sure. I could take down bigger opponents if I play my cards right, but what separates me from them? Why am I the one singled out from the crowd? Me. The one who comes with an unsavory background. Me. The one who spent the first half of her life  _thieving_. These teenagers have worked hard, I can see it in their movements. They are fast. They are skillful. They are clever. I'm just a small, scrawny, sixteen-year-old with an over-active brain.

What strikes me is the camaraderie that surrounds them. Granted, they've probably grown up together, but they interact with an easy friendship that I haven't seen before. A spar commences on the training mats between a slight girl with mousey-brown hair, and a huge, hulking boy with blond curls. I can already predict who will win, but the girl doesn't give up that easily. She gets close to beating him many times, but in the end his sheer strength gives him the edge and she taps out in a choke hold. But afterwards, there is no hostility, no venom. He good naturedly helps her up and they clap shoulders and move on easily, the girl laughing at her mistakes and the guy taking no gratification in his victory. The rest of the recruits occasionally call out jokes or good-natured ribbing from across the room, using the short-hand slang that is developed here.

I pull away, feeling like more of an outsider than ever. Now I know I'll never see them again. Just like everything else, I'm going to leave this place behind. It hasn't become my home, but I'll remember it with fondness. This Training Center. It was the first time I ever experienced something challenging. Something thrilling. I soaked up new knowledge and started a new life here. But now I'm moving on and the people here will forget me. I'll probably never see it again. I always leave everyone behind.

_Everyone._

Suddenly it hits home.

_Everyone._

The word echoes mockingly in my ears.

_Everyone._

Everyone. Including Ortuso.

I feel the weight on my chest magnify a thousand times. I have to leave him behind too. I have to leave my one friend behind. Then it dawns on me. He's my  _friend._

_I have a friend_.

And then, _I'm leaving him._

There is a ringing in my ears. This feels like the last straw. Whatever grip I had before is now slipping away. I slowly lean back and off my knees until I'm sitting with my back against the walls of the vent because I can't hold myself up anymore. I gather my knees to my chest and clutch them desperately. My breaths reverberate in my ears, echoing off each other, yet each slow and deliberate. At first I think I'm going blind, but it's not blindness. It's tears. Something between a moan and a choke comes out of my throat. I clamp my clammy hands over my mouth to stop those horrible sounds, but they keep coming, even if they are muffled.

For the first time, I feel actual tears gather in my eyes. All the times the past months that I've suppressed them has made me forget what it feels like to just let them go. I couldn't stop them even if I tried. These aren't like any of the tears I've cried in the past. They gather in my eyes, making my vision useless, until they fall in huge, fat drops that are so heavy they don't even slide down my cheek. They slide right off my eyelashes and drip down onto my lap or splash my hands, which are across my mouth, on the way down. The tears leave my already weary eyes very wet and sore. My eyelashes feeling extremely heavy and it takes effort just to bat them and rid my eyes of the nuisances that drip from them.

The noises still come from the back of my throat, and no matter how much I try to press them down, they keep getting louder.  _Tears are a drop of clear, salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when the eye is irritated, nothing more,_ I tell myself desperately, but the old formula doesn't work this time. Nothing can stop what I've stifled for so long.

Suddenly, I feel something brush my arm. Sheer reflex takes over and I spin around (as much as I can in the limited space) and throw a fist in that direction. It's haywire, easily divertible, but I'm in no condition for a fight right now.

Someone grabs my fist out of the air. I stay put, feeling my whole body shake from my inner trauma, and slowly my vision clears. Ortuso is there, holding my trembling fist inches away from his face.

His eyes travel from it, where they were previously trained, to my face, which must look horrible. His normally blue eyes glint nearly black in the half-light and his serious face is covered in shadow. "Careful where you throw that thing."

Something between a squeak, a moan, and a choked laugh leaves my mouth in a gust. I fall back into my former position, but now press my eyes into the heels of my hands. This time, I can't cover up the sobbing sounds, so I don't try to.

I feel Ortuso shift. His arms go around my shaking shoulders and he pulls me to his side. If I was myself right now, I would either shrug him away, or punch him in the gut, but all I register is how not-awkward it is, which surprises me. We usually never touch. I guess it's an unconscious rule that was built between us. Or maybe I built it and Ortuso just lets it be. But right now it feels like we've known each other all our lives. Like this soothing contact isn't wrong.

But friends comfort each other, right?

And I just admitted to myself that he's a friend.

I decide not to let all the other complications that come with this realization settle in, yet. After all, it would make betrayal just that much worse.

His hand travels over my frizzed hair, smoothing it behind my ears. I just curl up, resting my cheek against his chest. I can't explain Ortuso. He's not funny. Not in a literal sense, but he has a dry cynicism and knows what to say at the right time that shows the dry irony of any given situation. There is absolutely nothing romantic about him. He's a geek. But he's not nerdy,  _at all_. One of the first things I noticed about him was his firm presence, and no nerd has that. He has a leadership that surrounds him, despite his small size. He is smart, extremely smart. That was another part of him that I first noticed. But he's kind, even if it is covered with his deadpan sarcasm. I trust him.

He doesn't say anything, so the only sounds are my sobs. They sound so weak. I try to suppress them, but then they come out embarrassingly louder than before. He must know about my transfer, but he doesn't ask any questions. I'm too much of a mess to answer anyways.

I feel that the little dispute from this morning is forgotten, which makes a small part of me glad. At least we won't part on bad terms. I also feel that this unexpectedly and inexplicably soft side of Ortuso will not make another appearance any time soon. He doesn't usually waste time with emotions. And I don't either. Something really wrong must have gotten into me.

Now I realize what we are. We are two kids, both from the streets, trying to survive together. We are the two outsiders. The only two skulking in the vent. We are just trying to make it through our lives, and to what goal? Is there anything we really have to live for? Or are we just following the primal instinct in our primitive, animal side that tells us to survive? And here we are together, hiding in the dark, trying to block the cruel realities of a world that is harsh and unforgiving to the children like us, the ones with no one to turn to.

After a little while, my crying subsides to the occasional hiccup, and he pushed me up to a sitting position. He tugs his sleeve over his hand, using it to wipe my face. "Clean up the waterworks."

I push his hand away. I can do that much by myself. I wipe them off roughly with the heel of my hand. He just watches me. I don't feel a no-touch barrier, but I feel him going back into his usual cynicism that, as oddly as it sounds, never insults me. I find it comforting. It's part of him.

For the sake of conversation, I speak up, but my voice is thick and nasally and sounds despairingly childish. "How did you find me?"

He doesn't move, "I know you better than you think."

I let out a scoff that is more of a tiny laugh than actually mocking him. "I'm getting that vibe from a lot of people."

"Or just two."

I look up quickly. His expression hasn't changed at all. I used to find that creepy, but now I know it's his 'contemplating' face. He's waiting for affirmation. I shrug, and go back to wiping my eyes. "Hawkeye is an annoying reprobate that has made it his life's mission to confuse me."

"He makes perfect sense to me."

My brow furrows. All I can think to say is, "what?"

"I'm surprised you haven't caught on yet actually. It was apparent to me from day one."

"Well then, please, enlighten me," I wince internally at how snappish my tone is.

Ortuso doesn't seem to care. "He's not as bad as you think." I just stare blankly at him. "I mean," he starts to elaborate, "while he may seem distant or harsh—"

"Or cruel," I mumble.

He goes on as if I didn't speak, "he's not any of those, really. He's a good person, but he's an agent. He's never going to babysit you."

"I never asked him to," I retort.

"No" he relents, "but you want him to stay in character."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you place all your expectation in him being and acting a certain way. A way that meets your ideals. In your mind, he is the closest thing you have to SHIELD, so you look for all the qualities of the agency inside of him. To you, he  _is_  SHIELD. If he presents himself as harsh, or uncaring, you transfer that image to SHIELD, and your paranoia of government will—"

"I'm not paranoid!" I protest.

He doesn't even bother to answer that one, "will creep in, and then you begin to feel panicked and cornered." I purse my lips, but look down at my nails, which are bitten raw to the beds. He's right. He's figured me out better than I have. I  _am_  terrified that the way Hawkeye acts is a reflection on the agency. He's really got it pinned.

"Why haven't you said this before?" I almost whisper.

"Because. We were all waiting." His voice is low. My eyes find his fixed gaze. "Waiting for the time when the pressure would either break or make you."

"So now I'm broken," I say hopelessly as I look back down at my hands.

"No, Keira. Not at all. Why else do you think he's pulling you out?" I frown. I hadn't really thought about it. "Because, whatever happened today, you finally proved to him that you're ready. He put you under a monumental amount of stress and emotional anxiety, but he was taking a risk. A gamble."

"A gamble of my life," I whisper, realization dawning. Ortuso simply nods. Suddenly, it makes sense. Apparently everyone knew before I did, but Barton wasn't just training me, he was pressing me, and pressing hard, until I cracked, or became so tough I could take whatever comes at me.  _Whatever comes at me_. Then it clicks. I'm going to be facing so emotionally devastating that it could be ten times worse than this ever was. There will always be pressure. This is a stressful job, but I'm going to be doing something that is the hardest barrier to overcome. The physical can only be so hard, but fear is in our minds, so the hardest fear, or the hardest obstacle, will also be in the mind. That can only be one thing.

I breathe in quickly through my nose. "He was preparing me for this. Where ever I'm going, it's going to be hard, both physically and mentally. But it's so much more than that. It's going to be my first taste of the field." My voice falls to a whisper. "And I'm training to be an assassin. Ortuso, will it be my first kill?"

He stays silent and looks down for the first time. I look down as well, too incredulous to really comprehend this information. This,  _this,_ will be the deciding point. If I can do this, than I know I'm have what it takes to be an…  _assassin_. The word sounds bitter in my head, and it would taste even worse on my tongue, let alone if that is the label that will be branded over my head for the rest of my life.

I have a decision. I can either become what  _they_  intend for me to be, or I can leave. If I leave, what will I do? No doubt I could make a name for myself in anything I wanted. I know how to take care of myself. All I would need is a new name, and then I could go underground. I could work out my software, which is getting close to being done, and then hit the button. SHIELD would lose all records, all sign that I was ever here.

Except for my connections.

Barton. Ortuso. I could never sever those with a click of a button. They've helped me. More than I would like to admit. They've somehow wormed their way into my heart. If I left them without another word, could I live with myself?

_Don't make emotional decisions, Kiera. They cloud your judgment. Make decisions on facts. On concrete evidence. On rational problems. That's the only way you can survive. Remember that no matter what, people will always fail you. Look after yourself, because no one else will._

I press my fists against my temples. That little voice. Always there. Always wanting me to listen to it. It will never go away. It was born from years of abandonment and betrayal. It was the only way I survived. But this is a new life. Do I need to listen to it anymore? What if I stopped trying to survive? What if I just started to  _live_?

_What if I lived?_

The question brings my train of thoughts to a halt, and that one sentence echoes around my mind. It's so simple, but it means so much. It would mean no more surviving. It would mean friends. It would mean  _belonging_. It would mean trust. It would mean handing over my life to SHIELD and pray they don't break me. Am I capable of giving anyone that kind of trust?

Suddenly, the oddest thought pops into my head.  _I'm so tired._  Three words. But they are so true and they run me down. I'm just so tired, I don't want to fight anymore. All my life, all I've ever wanted is to stop running. Some unseen force has always driven me, making me keep going when it feels the darkest. I don't even know where this force comes from anymore. I used to think it was my will power, but now that my will power is so drained, I know that's not it. Maybe it's just some weird fluke of mine. Maybe it's some innate part of my senses. I don't know, but it will not let me rest. It keeps driving me, pushing me to make the decision bent on survival.

Which decision would let me survive?

Which would let me live?

Neither seem to do much in either department. Killing people for a living doesn't sound like the cheeriest life; but running from an organization as big as SHIELD doesn't sound very feasible either. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated? Why can't everyone leave me alone to live out the rest of my life in as much peace as is possible for someone like me?

But everyone is always chasing me. I have to make a decision, and I have to make one now. At least if I choose SHIELD, I will be on the right side of the law, otherwise, it would be a very shady business all on my own. But since when have I believed in the law? I've seen the power of the underground criminal network, and I'm beginning to wonder which is stronger of the two powers.

Raising my gaze to Ortuso, I see he's been observing me through hooded eyelids, waiting for my decision. I realize I need his advice, his calm, practical mind to analyze the situation. "What do you think… of SHIELD?"

He blinks, thinking over his answer. "I think they are a big organization. And everything that comes with that. Secrets, stories, line bending. I also think they mean to do the right thing, but maybe take the theory of, 'means justify the end,' a little too far. I think, if you were to pick between the lesser of evils, SHIELD is the cleanest. But I can see battling forces inside of it. They are leaning towards the mistake so many big agencies make, to place the outcome over the person, but I also see resistance to fall into that mistake. Have you read the file on the Battle of New York?" he asks. I shake my head. I read the CIA's but I think I was too busy to read SHIELD's lately. "Well, the Council ordered—"

"The Council?" I question.

"They're the big guns, the highest it gets. They are the boss of THE boss, Fury. They are the ones that ordered the nuke on the city that Iron Man diverted."

"It came from  _this_  agency? And they put that on the  _file_?" I gasp.

"Are you kidding? Of course not. They would never get their hands dirty like that. The nuke was said to have 'unknown source.' You know SHIELD never leaves anything like that 'unknown.' They didn't even try a recon. Of course it was this agency, or why else would they leave something like that in the dark?" I chew my lip, suddenly doubting the soundness of my sanity that led me to accept the…  _forced_  invitation to come here. "But Iron Man had to have gotten a heads up from someone." My eyes snap to his. I don't even have to ask him to explain himself. "Why would he have any part of his program scanning for incoming nukes? All of his energy would have been devoted to the attack, or to alien frequencies. Obviously someone in charge, but not the highest up, had to give a warning."

"Fury?" I already know the answer, but I just need confirmation. Which I get when he nods. Sighing deeply, I don't find this information has helped. Rather, it's added a whole new layer of complexity to this already insanely complex puzzle.

Leaning forward, Ortuso pats my knee. "They're never going to be perfect, but in this messed up world, I think they're the best people like us have got." He straightens, "you have a decision to make, and no one can make it for you. I already made mine. Mostly everyone here has made theirs. Choose carefully, it'll dictate the rest of your life." He turns and I watch him disappear down the tunnel.

Taking a deep breath, I rub my sore, red eyes. I already know what my decision is, I suppose. It's always been the same, I've just resisted it with my whole being.

"Time to go pack," I whisper.

* * *

**Hawkeye P.O.V.**

If I hadn't seen so many bloody deaths, so many mutilations, so many extremely high pressure situations, so many traumatic experiences, I'm sure my hands would be shaking right now.

The blood work came back in. Finally. But it's nothing that I expected

What my eyes see on the paper, my brain tells me is impossible. What my eyes see in Ortuso and Keira, my gut tells me is probable. What my heart sees in both, tells me this could possibly be the most twisted, sick, unhealthy, and disturbing story I've ever come across, let alone gotten caught up in.

I dial my phone and hold it to my ear. I put on my professional mask, the same one that is used for all worst-case-circumstances. "Agent Barton, to Director Fury," I speak monotone to the woman who picks up. I wait, rigid and quiet for the Director to pick up. My mind is reeling. This can't be true. It must be a mistake. But I know it isn't. SHIELD doesn't make mistakes.

" _Barton, if this about that girl again, I swear_ …" I hear his voice sigh through the line. I can just see him rubbing his temples.

"We have a situation, sir," my voice is completely calm and crisp. I can immediately feel the shift in energy, and Fury going on red alert. "I suggest you check the latest blood work done on her, and another recruit, Nathan Ortuso." I wait silently. If I try to explain, he wouldn't believe me. Hell,  _I_  wouldn't believe me. The silence on the other end of the line confirms Fury's shock as well, something only a very few have ever had the opportunity to experience.

"Where are they now?" his voice is just as cold as mine.

"Still here at the training center, sir."

"Good. You get them separated. You take that girl, and you go to the other side of the God damned planet if you have to. We'll transfer the boy to some other facility. He's already been looked over for an early graduation, now he'll get a real job. They leave, no explanations, no goodbyes. This is dangerous, too dangerous to leave unexplored. Until we know more, it's not safe for them to be together."

"Understood, sir," I reply crisply. It's a good thing we already have tickets.

I hear him sigh, once again. "This may run deeper than we know. There are a lot of Hydra facilities that come up with these experiments, but whoever did this obviously succeeded. If this kind of technology ended up in the hands of terrorists and infiltrators… until we know exactly what we're dealing with, they need to be kept low. No extra attention. The last thing we need is someone looking into them."

No extra attention. That eerily echoes what my thoughts were this morning. Why does it seem that all her life, Keira's genius is always smothered? Why is it always deemed dangerous? Maybe because people can always tell when a person… is not one of them.

"Sir, I'm afraid it may be too late for that."


	13. Striking A Deal

**Keira's POV**

"Damn! I missed Christmas!" I sit in the co-pilot seat of a transport quinjet with my SHIELD standard phone, catching up on everything I possibly missed. "Not to mention a terrorist attack that decimated Stark's personal mansion, included a personal hit on the President of the United States, and the betrayal of one of the highest ranking officials in our nation, the Vice President. I would think… that was worth… I don't know… mentioning?" I pointedly ask an unresponsive Clint Barton.

We've been on this transport for three dragging hours with nothing to alleviate the silence except the occasional question or awkward statement, all originating from me. Clint Barton, however, has his headset on and is thoroughly engrossed in the task of flying. I, apparently, am invisible.

"Soooo," I elongate deliberately. I just keep talking because I know it's annoying. "Oh look! More celebrities slept with each other. Middle East is going crazy. Every day bank robbery that isn't important because I didn't do it. The government is being blamed for surveillance drones, which I knew about years ago. People are mad because the CIA can check their cellphones like a jealous girlfriennnnnd, blah blah blah." I throw my phone into the cargo hold (its worthless junk anyways) and lean my head back with closed eyes. I am bored to the point of extreme. I've never felt so much like a child in Clint's presence, to be honest.

I suppose I could try to sleep, but all my nerves are too on edge. I value my life enough to not attempt to annoy Hawkeye in any direct manner. I begin imagining all the subtle things I could do to get his attention…

Suddenly it comes to me in one stroke of pure genius. I jerk up and fumble with my harness and scramble into the cargo hold. In the corner of my eye, I see Clint's eyes follow me, but I ignore him. I locate the phone and (very ungracefully) climb back into my seat. I see he has gone back to his preoccupied-with-bullshit mode.

All it takes is a few clicks of a button, when suddenly an alert comes up on the console screen: "ALERT: PA OVERRIDE." And just like that, the electric guitar of Jimi Hendrix, Purple Haze is blasting over the speakers.

Clint Barton swears some very uncouth words that I will not indulge and rips the screaming headset off his undoubtedly ringing ears. He punches some buttons on the center console, but it does nothing. I have control of the system. I laugh hysterically and raise the volume even louder. He hits autopilot and then leans over to grab the phone. I push myself as far away as possible and hold it over my head. With a growl, he pins one of my arms and grabs the other, pulling it down to him and taking the phone from my grip.

A few button clicks later, the quinjet is completely silent. I cross my arms sulkily and stare out the window. "Such a buzzkill," I grumble.

"Keira—" he begins. I know that tone.

"Don't," I cut him off, "just don't. We're not in enemy airspace, we aren't under any impending attack of any kind, and I am finally free after months of imprisonment in both an 'educational' compound and a hospital. Also, Jimi Hendrix was one of the most celebrated instrumentalists of the 20th century and he was a major influence in the shaping of electric guitar. His music deserves to be enjoyed."

Clint scoffs. "If you want to talk about the shaping of any type of music, I think you should choose Pink Floyd."

"What? No way!"

"Philosophical lyrics, sonic experiment, you name it and they were one of the most musically influential groups in the history of pop or rock music."

"Well, I don't listen to them."

"Have you ever heard their songs?" He looks properly aghast.

"Not exactly?"

"You have no education. Next time there's a chance, you are getting cultured in the true nineteen-seventies music."

"Sure, whatever you say," I laugh. I stretch my arms above my head and arch my back, yawning lazily. I catch Clint's eye, and he is looking at me in a strange way. It's almost… sentimental. Like the look a person would wear when they are seeing a friend for the last time. I shoot him an annoyed glance, and he looks away.

"Keira…" he starts again. This time I don't interrupt him. "The next few weeks are going to be difficult. I won't try sell it to you because you're too smart for that. They're going to be possibly the hardest weeks you've ever faced in your life. What you need to understand is… people change in the field."

"I've changed over the years a lot already, Clint. I'm not the same twelve-year-old I was when I was left alone in the world," I roll my eyes.

"Not like this," he insists. I shut up. "Just remember, Keira, remember who you really are. Don't lose that."

"Who am I?" I mutter to myself.

"You're a stubborn realist who has an overarching sense of morality that urges you to make very stupid decisions occasionally." He responds. I snort, but it is partly true. I fall silent, thinking about Clint's warning. How am I supposed to guard myself, when I don't even know what myself is? I feel like a massless substance, always changing, shifting, like air. I don't know what my true form is, I don't know what I'm supposed to guard when strange substances come, because I don't know what my original substance was. What if those substances mix into mine and create a monstrous chemical reaction that will destroy anything in its path?

* * *

A few hours later, I find myself in a shitty motel room in the outskirts of Aleppo, Syria.

_Thump._

My duffle falls to the floor and causes a mushroom cloud of dust to erupt. I sigh and resign myself to my fate.

"What did you expect, five star hotel in Venice?" Clint asks and he walks through the door.

I look around the dingy room. I can see dust motes through the grimy windows and the cabinets are sagging and splintered on their hinges. The furniture stuffing is hanging out of the tattered upholstery and there are stains all over the room that I really don't want to know how they got there.

"Why don't we just stay in a cave like our prehistoric ancestors did?" I shoot back. "I'd assume it would be more sanitary."

I flop myself down on the couch, and immediately regret it when something moves in the cushions. Clint is already pulling equipment out of his duffel. He begins to set up his laptop. "We'll be setting up surveillance here. We received information that a well-known drug trafficking band is passing a load of cargo through a by-road somewhere here. Our mission is to locate," he inserts a flash drive into his laptop with a click, "and destroy all targets."

"Whoa, whoa," I stand up. "All targets? What does that mean?"

"It means," he turns to me, "that we are driving this cartel so deep into the ground it will never be able to crawl back and regenerate itself."

"How many targets is that?" I ask a little faintly.

"No idea," he responds grimly. "Depends on how many shipments are leaving and how big the base is."

"Annnnd, we have no intel on this because?" I ask, in a 'duh' voice. I can tell I'm starting to get on Clint's nerves.

"Because we don't. We have what we're given and that's it. We're expected to fix the problem with what we've got." His sharp eyes flick to mine. "So, Matheson, can you fix the problem?"

A moment of silence.

I grab my duffle and start setting up my own equipment. Damn right I'm gonna solve the problem.

* * *

Forty-eight hours and a lot of caffeine later, I'm still sitting in the ratty motel room with my headset on, listening for chatter and intercepting any and all messages I can get my hands on in the region. The only sound is my constant typing and the static-y voices in my ears. There's been nothing. Absolutely nothing. The most interesting thing that's happened is a woman found her husband was cheating on her and called him some very foul words over the phone.

I ask myself again why I'm doing this. Because I've been assigned. Simple as that. It's always simple, until I start to think why. I don't have any emotional connection with these people. None at all. All my life it's been me setting all my resources to self-preservation, but now? I'm digging into other peoples' lives (criminals, to be precise. And I was on their side of the line not too long ago) for no apparent reason other than their downfall.

These are bad people.

These are bad people.

These are bad people.

I chant as I work. When you are doing the same thing over and over again for forty-eight hours, you start to just go on autopilot. And when you start to go on autopilot, you start doubting your decision.

But how do I know they're bad people? How do I know they really are bad people, despite their actions? I'm reading everything off a file, and making decisions on whose life to take by what's been printed on paper.

_Name: Unkown_

_Alias: Masteria_

_Status: Head of drug cartel located in northeast Syria, mostly known as an export from Aleppo._

_D.O.B.: 15th August, 1965_

_Background: Traveled to the United States in early childhood. Was deported in 1983 for dealings in illegal substances that ended in a charge of involuntary manslaughter._

_Parents: unknown._

_Children: One child, male, approximately early twenties._

And that's it. A very narrow file, other than his alleged drug dealings and supposed recent activity, which deals with more drug dealings. Yes, he's probably just your everyday deadbeat using substances that harm other people for his own wealth.

But.

_NO! NO MORE BUT'S. That time is OVER. I'm doing this for my own survival. That's why._

_Then what makes you different from him? Taking down others for your own gain?_

_It's different because I'm on the right side of the law this time._

_What is the right side of the law? Is there a right side of the law? You, of all people, should know it's never that black and white._

_I don't have time for this._

Suddenly, something catches my attention. "Where is the blackbird dropping the coin?"

"Clint!" I call, scrabbling for a pen and paper. "Listen to this!"

"In the mountain pass exactly three weeks from the party."

The words are all slow and deliberate. Well rehearsed.

"What are the details of the party?"

"It takes place at Abbassiyeen in the palace at the time of the Eid al Adha."

And that's it. I finish scribbling it down and look up to find Clint with a look of concentration on his face as he listens for more chatter, but there's nothing. "'The time of Eid al Adha.' What the hell is that?"

"It's a festival starting January 31st, a week from now," he lists off quickly. "That's the time. We need the place. Is there anything in the message?"

"Bet your ass on it." I respond, typing furiously. I spin my laptop around to face him. "Abbassiyeen is a street where all the people who shouldn't be rich in this third world country are exceedingly so."

"Brilliant," he grins. "Let's go."

* * *

We stand on a building adjacent to that of our intended target's. Its whitewashed walls rise above the sand of the desert like an oasis. The gate seems to be barricaded like a goddamned missile bunker. I can barely see over its twenty foot walls, and inside is the place where bad people do bad things in very nice suits. The grounds are perfectly groomed with a rainbow of vibrant tropical flowers growing in pots against the lush of the shady palm trees. I think I can catch a glimpse of the glistening coolness of a pool.

"Damn, you gotta hand it to him. He's done amazingly for himself," I remark with my face buried in some binoculars.

"That's why there are so many people in this business," Clint responds. Both of us are sweating under the harsh sun and the heat reflected off the cement roof we are uncomfortably lying on.

"What!? No! I thought they all wanted to be like us. Sweating their asses off in some God forsaken stakeout in the Middle East."

I can't see his eyes behind the binoculars, but I have a huge suspicion they are rolling.

"Well, we've staked out this place, and I think we can say there are security cameras on every square inch, along with metal detectors, bugs, and laser scans and the entire Nation Guard. I can safely presume you are on the same page as me when I say we are not breaking into this place easily, even if we wanted to."

"Oh, we're breaking in," he lowers his binoculars. He is dead serious.

"Why? We already know when they are shipping the next batch of whatever, so we can just sabotage 'em then."

"Because even SHIELD can't bomb a whole cartload of human beings without concrete evidence. You should know that, Keira," there is an agonizingly patronizing and chiding tone in his voice.

"Right," I pull my eyes from the binoculars and switch my tone to deathly seriousness, "I would know because that's just the organization that kidnapped me and had absolutely no liability to any 'law.' Which I think is a joke, anyway." I turn back to my stakeout.

At first I think Clint is going to respond. To try and argue me out of my opinion, but instead all he says is, "well, we'll just have to see, won't me?" A short pause. "We're going to the party."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Definitely not. There has got to be evidence in there, and if not than a lead to where the evidence is. We're going undercover."

"Brilliant. Just one question. How are we going to sneak in when there's a full scale party going and I have a feeling this possessive drug lord isn't going to just let anyone into his lair of secrets."

"We're going to get an invitation."

"An invitation? Let me guess, you know some people in the area?"

"Hey, when you get into the business of international work, you'll make some friends too."

* * *

Three days later, Clint and I are sitting in an outdoor seating restaurant, waiting for our mystery drug lord. This is one of the busiest parts of the town. Venders call out their goods in Arabic from across the street. A lot of people dressed in the cultural robes and a couple of European tourists all hustle by.

I pick at my salad, too nervous to really eat anything. Clint just sits with his hands clasped behind his head, face tilted towards the sun, and shades pulled secretively over his eyes, looking as cool as someone from a Bond movie. We are currently waiting for communication with the 'Masteria,' as he likes to be called. I keep my usual chatter to a minimum, and try not to start every time someone passes by our table.

"Relax, Keira. You're as tense as a cat at a mouse hole." He laughs. I've never seen him this relaxed. I suppose being in the field gives him something to do, something to be.

"In this case, that's not far from the truth. Except I'm just not sure if the mouse is larger than the cat," I shoot back as I twist around and scan the crowd for any sign of a mysterious character.

"Isn't that the truth," a smooth voice comes behind me. I close my eyes and will myself not to jump out of my skin. I turn around normally and find a man sitting across the table from us. He's nothing like I expected. Obviously American, early twenties at best, dark shades over his eyes (just like Hawkeye) and a fitted suit. His hair is attractively tousled and styled. His features are symmetrical, serious, and young, but I can't get too much of a read on him as his eyes are hidden from sight. "Some are blind to when they've, what is the expression? 'Bitten off more than they can chew.'"

"You're the Masteria?" I ask, loftily.

He inclines his head towards me. "I am the Masteria's correspondent, of sorts."

I don't respond this time, but let my gaze flicker over him appraisingly. His mouth twist into a smirk. I scoff, roll my eyes, and look away.

"As you know," Clint intervenes, "I want to do business with the Masteria. I was hoping we could come to an agreement."

"And who's she?" His shaded eyes still haven't left me.

"A business partner," Clint lies smoothly.

"You seem a bit young to be in the business." I could swear he's mocking me.

I quirk and eyebrow, "so do you."

His lips pull back from his perfect, white teeth. "Touché," he turns back to Clint, "the Masteria likes to know who he is doing business with. You understand. There have been more CIA hounds on his tale lately."

"CIA?" I cut across Clint, who was obviously about to speak. He shoots me a dirty look. "If the Masteria is letting things… slip, I don't think either me or my business partner want to be close when the blood hounds close for the hunt."

"I can assure you," his tone is clipped and professional, "the Masteria takes the utmost care in the dealings of our business. Sensitive information is treated well. However, I understand you are the acquaintance of an old partner of the Masteria's?"

"Yes, Kirkaroff Volskarov," Clint responds.

The man's attitude changes almost immediately. The professionalism is still apparent, but his relaxes minutely and a small smile plays at his lips. "Ah, that changes things. I can assure you, you have the utmost importance of the Masteria's. In fact, he told me that if this was indeed the case to relay this information to you." He leans forward secretively. I lean away and am tempted to curl my lip in disgust, but Clint leans forward as well, acting as if he is thoroughly engrossed. "The Masteria is having a little party with his most trusted and… wealthy customers. He would like me to personally invite you to come, if you are willing, of course."

"Yes, I believe we should be able to make it. Extend our deepest thanks to the Masteria. I wish to become better acquainted with him in the near future," Clint responds. I swear, this man can put the most convincing man-who-just-made-a-great-business-deal-and-is-scheming-for-the-future face on like it's nothing.

"Wonderful, I look forward to seeing you soon," the man says with a grin. I can feel his shaded eyes lingering on me. I pointedly examine a passing vender with avid interest. With a haughty straightening of his suit-button, he melts into the crowd.

"That vile, loathly, stuck-up, spherical bastard," I grit my teeth.

Barton looks incredibly pleased with himself and doesn't seem to be paying me much attention. "Spherical?"

"It means— "

"I told you we'd get an invite."

"Well, congrats. I say, you never cease to blow me away with your brilliance, nor do you cease to baffle me with your bullshit." I joke.

He grins. "Are you ready some elbows with some very bad people?"

On queue, we both stand up. I drop a tip on the table and pull on some shades of my own, feeling very 007. "That's what I signed up for, isn't it?"


	14. A Masquerade

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I look in the full length mirror. The reflection staring back is one I haven't seen for too long than I care to remember. Before stands a girl in a lavish, gold, tight-fitting dress that hugs the curves and drapes over one shoulder. The skirt falls tastefully to the floor with a slit all the way up to my thigh. I wear five-inch platforms and tinkling jewelry to match. My dark hair is actually styled and curled so it sweeps over my shoulder and down to my fitted waist. My skin is snowy white and my makeup is done tastefully yet simply with nude tones and a splash of gold eyeliner that adds to the exotic feel of the whole outfit.

Standing here, posing, with one hand on my bony hip, I feel completely foreign. The Kiera I've been used to has not worn any makeup, been bruised, beaten, and exhausted to the point of a Frankenstein look. Here stands a model worthy of the Cover Girl front page, but she's not me.

Not me by a long shot.

Clint comes up behind me wearing a tux. I have to admit, he's striking. Something about the eyes, I think. Our gaze meets in the mirror. I feel an unspoken agreement. This is the first time we will truly go into the field together. We have to have each other's backs. If we don't this whole mission goes south.

I feel a lead weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I know Clint could most likely handle this whole operation single-handedly. But this is up to me. This is my learning curve. I am the biggest liability in the mission.

He holds something out to me and I turn around to get a better view of it. It's a leg holster for a sleep serum. I take it and look up at him. He smiles down at me.

"Even in that dress you can still conceal weapons."

"Please don't tell me you know this from personal experience." He ignores that.

"Remember your mission?"

I nod. Courtesy of SHIELD, we were able to dig up the blueprints of the mansion, desperately looking for some clue as to where any information could be stored. Of course, there could be safes hidden all over the place, but none showed in the construction plans. However, we had a breakthrough when I noticed the dimensions in the study of the left wing were off. After we had done surveillance of the mansion, I pulled up the pictures. With a little luck, we reconstructed as much of it as possible and that's when I noticed there was an extra twenty-five feet in the outer wall. From there, we deduced that this could be some sort of vault. This is the most likely place for incriminating evidence to be stored.

The plan is simple on my part. Get in, split up, charm the first available creep into time alone. Sedate him, hide the body, find the vault rendezvous with Clint and then use my vault-picking expertise to open it.

Of course, there are flaws. Firstly, that I have no idea what type of security is on these vaults. If it's anything like a bank vault, I'll need specialized equipment. We already know there are metal detectors. It's Clint's part of the job to somehow sneak the equipment in. But I'm not even sure if it's the right equipment.

Secondly; I have to  _flirt_.

I am hopeless. All I can hope is that maybe this dress can be persuasive enough on its own, because my nonexistent sunny personality will do nothing. I'm in a dress.  _I am in a dress_. My knowledge in the art of seduction is in the deficit. I'm not exactly charming, alluring, beautiful, seductive, sexy, or sensual. And I would need all of those traits to get anything out of these drug-dealing playboys.

And there lies another problem. Exactly how far am I supposed to take this? I'm not the most  _experienced_. Hell, I have  _no_  experience. For anyone to fall into an infatuation with me would take a miracle from the God Almighty. I push my skirt aside and buckle the serum to my leg. I barely feel the small vial. I know it's not much, but I'd rather have something to put someone to sleep temporarily rather than permanently.

"Ready?" He asks. His sniper eyes are searching my face.

I know what he wants to find.

I give him a small smile. "And reporting for duty."

* * *

I lean on Clint's arm as we walk to the metal gates. My breathing is rapid and my pulse is hammering. I feel sweat make my palms clammy.

"Relax, you're going to a party and are about to make a business deal that will gain you millions." Clint reminds me of my assumed persona.

"You know, sometimes Kiara Marcelle really gets on my nerves," I whisper back harshly. It's true. The bubbly, alluring, dominatrix persona of Kiara Marcelle (a beautiful French dame who freelances as a diamond thief) is exactly the type of person I hate. Her affected French accent is just ridiculous.

Clint doesn't answer as he hands our invitations with a charming smile to Security Guard Hulk. I can only help but think how easily Clint could snap that giant man's neck.

After a few mandatory security checks, in which the vial of sedative is so small it was mistake for the hem of my dress, we are in. The grounds are just as I expected. Lavish.

The white path before us leads to the mansion, in which I can see men with women slung over their arm or in conversations with each other. Waiters weave about with glasses of Champaign and other alcoholic drinks.

Inside the mansion, priceless art pieces line the intricate walls. Pillars of marble rise to the roof, which is decorated with a mural depicting mythical creates, battles, heroes, heaven and hell in a complex mass of painted, cherubic bodies. A dance floor is cleared in this room below the arching domes of the roof and people intermix freely.

"How about a drink?" Clint asks. I nod since my tongue is feeling too sandpaper-y to unstick from the roof of my mouth. Clint orders for us at the bar. I gratefully take the alcohol, and without a second glance at it, shoot it straight down. It burns. It clears my senses. I literally feel the liquid courage enter my system. "Better?"

"Much," I grin.

He pulls out a small pill box from his coat pocket. He lifts it and removes the faux compartments to reveal our ear and molar sets. "Here," he hands me mine discreetly. I press the small button and a green light shows me they are active. I quickly position it on my molar and in my ear.

"Working?" he asks.

"Perfectly," I say and coolly lift my drink to my mouth, purposefully swishing excessively loudly around my molar. He proceeds to close his eyes and take a collective breath. I notice a few people nearby are giving me strange looks. I smirk at him and lift an eyebrow, daring him to retaliate. He is the image of professionalism.

"Stick to the plan."

"Whatever you say, Bond," I say with the French lilt and leisurely walk away with a seductive sway of my hips and a playful look over my shoulder. He snorts and moves the other direction.

I move leisurely through the crowd, like a hunter through a jungle just searching for the right prey. I consider a man waltzing with a woman in a borderline indecent red dress, but decide against it when I see he is thoroughly engrossed in his current target. No, I need someone free, someone who's still hunting, someone I can catch easily and without much effort.

"You know, technically you were my date here, so shouldn't we be disappearing into a room together?" I can't help but coyly ask Barton through the ear piece.

_"_ _Now is not the time for wisecracks."_

"Now is always the time for wisecracks. But honestly, people might suspect, don't you think?" I place my empty glass on a passing waiter's tray.

 _"_ _I need to get in the equipment. Besides, I'm old enough to be your father_."

"Ew, gross. But I don't think that stops most of the people here."

 _"_ _You are most certainly right that it does not,"_  he says with evident distaste.

I stop to greet a middle aged couple (to avoid the appearance of being too eager for a date) and exchange pleasantries. I pretend to be interested as we strike up a typical conversation, but I continue to let my peripherals scan the length of the room.

I just finish excusing myself and turn around when I find myself face-to-face with Mr. Shades, except the shades are gone. He has that straight nose I remember, high cheekbones, strong jaw, and sculpted forehead, but what really capture me are his light hazel eyes. They twinkle with a mischievous streak, but they are also dangerous. I can't bring myself to trust them.

"You know," he starts pleasantly, "I don't remember the mysterious and beautiful little business partner of the very eager new customer having such a pronounced French accent."

I had thought of this, as he had insinuated his appearance here. I smile coquettishly and drop the accent, only to pick up a flawless German one, "I prefer not to give people a correct first impression."

"You appear to be a woman of many masks."

I laugh a tinkling laugh and flash him what I can only hope is a dazzling smile. If I'm honest, I feel ridiculous, but I'm kind of enjoying wrapping men around my finger. Suddenly, it hits me like a freight train.  _I am such an idiot_.

I was so focused on picking up a man I had no past connections with, but why not this one? He is practically begging for it. It would take no work at all to get him alone.

I keep my brazenly alluring smile on my face and reply in my normal voice, "many masks indeed, or many women?"

"How many men knew which before they fell to your lethal claws?" his tone is joking, but there is something off. Something dead serious.

"Not many," I match his irony.

He studies me a moment before placing a hand on my waist and directing me towards the bar. "Would you care for a drink?"

Next thing I know, a straight margarita is in my hand. I've already had the Champaign and I can feel the flush in my cheeks. I stare down at it, not wanting to let my novice in the consumption of alcohol apparent, yet not wanting to override my senses, which are needed imperatively to be alert. My decision is chosen for me when I hear his chuckle. I look up to find him leaning casually against the bar, looking down at me with an amused expression.

"I see you're not much of one for a good loaded evening."

I set down the glass distastefully, "I don't take lightly the decapacitation of one's senses."

"I didn't take you for one who did," he responds, shooting what I guess is tequila.

"And I take you for one who does," I shoot back.

He shrugs, "I don't usually give people a correct first impression."

I roll my eyes and laugh, "Touché."

"So what brings a masked dame such as yourself into this dirty type of business?" He asks with a cool quirk of his eyebrow.

"It's only as dirty as you let your own hands get." I try to elude his probing as much as possible.

"Word travels quickly in this line of work. I'm surprised I've never heard of someone like you before."

I give him a small smile. "Oh, I'm new to this work specifically." He looks interested, so I take it as a prompt to continue. "Diamonds, or something along those lines. All  _alleged_ , naturally. Work's good for girls with French accents and bags of jewels." Not all of this is a lie. Kiara Marcelle is only a spinoff of me. Though far more glamorous and ruthless, Kiara is me when I was stealing from vaults and basically spending my days cat burglar-ing.

He studies me a moment, as if not quite believing, but then he breaks into an odd smile, as if he finds something that amuses him, or slightly surprises him. "What is this alleged diamond thief's name?"

I extend my hand. "Kiara Marcelle."

He takes it a moment and murmurs "Mathias Weizner," before bending down and kissing my knuckles. He straightens with a smile, but doesn't loosen his grip. I smile coyly and try to ease my hand away, but it's then that I notice his eyes have turned dangerous. "You're hands. They aren't those of a jewel thief's." I frown and try to wrench my hand away, but his grip doesn't loosen. Slowly, he turns my palm over and traces the calluses where months of gun training and hand to hand combat have roughened my hands. He turns it over again and traces the scars on my knuckles where they have been split open after numerous fights. "The mouth may lie, but the body will betray."

"Lovely sentiments," I hiss as I give a good pull and he lets me go. "But have I not said I am a woman of many masks?"

"Then tell me, what else does the jewel thief do with her hours in the dead of night?"

I see an opening and hurry to grasp it. I look up at him through my lashes and let them swoop my cheek innocently. "Many things. Some of them would make you blush."

His eyes darken with something I have seen many times. Lust. That is all these womanizers can see in a woman. It blinds them. To my advantage, of course. My slip up is forgotten. He leans in close. His breath smells of mint and his cologne is strong. His eyes dip to my lips and he wets his own. He flicks his gaze back up to me and grins. It doesn't take much acting to get a flush and breathe a little harder. "Want to get out of here?"

"You read my mind."

He places a guiding hand on my back and weaves us through the crowd to a side hallway. I slip through the doors and he follows. I'm thinking fast. I have to get him close enough so he won't suspect anything. I have to give him enough time so no suspicion is aroused.

We're in a deserted hall that is something like a gallery. It's dark in here, but big. I turn around just as his lips crash into mine and his arms wind around my waist. It takes all my self-restraint to not stop myself from locking his arm and bashing his head in with a roundhouse kick.

No.

I am Kiara Marcelle.

This is Kiara.

I open my lips to give his tongue admittance. He is intoxicating. His scent, his weight, his heat, they all engulf me like a tidal wave of emotion. A surge of passion and excitement runs like a chill through my body. I've never experienced anything like this before. I let my hands run up his muscled back, coiling them around his neck and taking a fistful of his hair. His hands grip my hips and pull me flush against him. His chest is hard. I can only imagine the muscles underneath. His lips are soft, yet relentless. They work against my own in alien motions that my body instinctively responds to. I let my eyes flutter closed, feeling his heat, enjoy the feeling of having someone so close. Enjoying the thrill of the emotions that course through my pumping veins. Everything feels so alive, as if the very nerves of my skin are wired with electricity. I am lost in his touch, most literally.

All of a sudden, it happens so fast I can hardly see it happening. His hand slides up my leg (to which I was nearly oblivious), but when he reaches my thigh, it clicks. I forgot. I rip our lips apart just as his fingers grip the small vial of sleep serum strapped to my thigh. As I pull myself away, his hand just pulls it out in the nick of time. I duck as he swings at my head and easily block his follow up series of a right hook and a roundhouse kick. This is elementary, but I am nervous about the syringe in his hand. All it takes is one little poke and this operation is a failure.

He only uses two undercuts before suddenly lunging with the needle point of the syringe. I cross my forearms and use my strength to leverage against his arm. The needle quivers inches above my face. He grunts, using his superior weight and strength against me. I feel sweat roll down from my hairline as my arms shake. I am not as strong as him. My arms will give in soon.

I bring my five inch heel up and hook it across his wrist and then yank my leg down. He cries out as his wrist is twisted and the syringe flies from his grasp and shatters onto the ground. He staggers back, clutching his arm.

I reach to my ear and press the button. "Hawkeye, I have a currently engaged unarmed hostile. Rendezvous time is unclear."

 _"_ _You need to get out of there,"_  he sings sarcastically. I can hear his voice is strained, he must be doing something some ninja moves.

I advance Mathias before he is up. He raises his hands in defense and sends a jab my way, but he is slow. I duck easily and grab a fist full of his hair, slamming his nose down onto my up-jutting knee. "I'm  _trying_ ," I mimic. "I'll contact you with further details as soon as this is dealt with."

I keep my hold on Mathias's hair, pulling his face back and letting my left hook cut across his cheekbone twice. I am about to give the knockout punch when he finally spits out enough blood to un-garble his speech. "Wait! I know what you are looking for!"

I pause.

"The vault. You think it's close to his study. You're wrong."

"You have ten seconds before I bust half your teeth out of your mouth and send you to a nice long sleep before you wake up half paralyzed in a hospital," I snarl.

He grins. Blood smears his teeth. I'm suddenly flooded with memories of our kiss. His touch. His fragrance.  _Not now._

"Everything you're looking for isn't here."

" _Then tell me where it is,_ " I give an extra vicious yank at his hair. He winces, dropping the arrogant attitude.

"It's not here. Did you really think he would invite eighty guests to his house and keep documents of all his transactions just lying around?"

"He has a vault. He has enough money for state of the art equipment. That wouldn't exactly be lying around," I argue.

"To people like you, it might as well be," he shoots back. "I knew who you were from the beginning. Your friend's friend who got you in here wasn't as loyal as you thought. He gave us a tip. Luckily for you, all tips go through me.  _I_  let you in here."

"Why did you do it? Why didn't you tell me before?" I ask, my tone is hard.

"I had to make sure who you were first." I notice he skips over the 'why did you do it' but time is running out, I will figure that out later. I stare down at him for a split second, making my decision. He waits.

I let go.

"Fine." I snap. "Come on. I have to find my partner."

He picks himself up and winks, "whatever you say, princess."

I am visited with the immediate desire to rake my golden nails across his damn smirk. "Shut up or I will change my mind." I turn away from him and press our com. "Hawkeye."

 _"_ _A little busy right now_ ," he gasps. I hear the sounds of a fight and his heavy breathing.

I start to down the gallery back to the party. But Mathias grabs my arm. I swing around and almost slam the heel of my palm into his nose, but he catches my wrist. "Wrong way. " He jerks his head the opposite direction. For a moment, I consider a trap, but if he wanted he could have handed us over to security at any moment. I have to trust him. So I follow him the other way.

"There's a change of plans." We take a right. "I just received intel from a source that the information isn't in the building. Abort mission."

_"_ _That's not an option."_

"What do you mean? The file isn't here. We have to get out." My voice is slightly ragged as I chase Mathias down another corridor.

_"_ _I ran into a slight problem."_

"Fine, where are you? We can help with evacuation."

_"_ _No time. Get out. Get to the safe house. I'll contact you when—"_

Suddenly the line cuts into static.

"Hawkeye?" I press the button several times, but nothing happens.  _"_ Hawkeye! Clint Barton!  _Clint you birdbrain pick up!"_

"We need to move."

I look up and realize I have stopped running. Mathias is waiting with an expectant look on his face. I see we have run to a more industrial site of the mansion. The walls are steel and metal double doors are just feet away with a glowing red "exit" sign above them. "No."

"Are you insane? You've been discovered. Whatever stunt your little friend pulled, your com was just cut by a signal jammer, I'd bet anything on it. We only have a time frame to get out. We need to leave now." He reaches to take my arm again. You'd really think he'd learn not to do that by now.

I jerk away. "I said  _no_. He's my partner. I'm not leaving him. I accepted your help on my terms, and I say we stay. You can leave. Go. Go back to your drug lord. I don't know why you even decided to help me, but it doesn't matter. I'm not leaving without him."

"I could just alert them to your exact location you know," his voice drops. It's deep. Distracting. "Would you really let someone with that kind of information just walk away from you?"

"Well I'm not going to kill you and you haven't turned us in so far, so yes, based on the facts, I would let you walk away."

He scrutinizes me for a moment. "Fine. Let's find Birdbrain."


	15. Close Escape

I'm running through a mansion with only the memorized blueprint in my head and a man who I would not trust with my salad fork is by my side. We are headed to the security room in hopes of finding Clint somewhere in the security footage.

He turns left suddenly, but that's not right. "Hey! The security room is this way!" I call.

"Do you expect to fight your way through sixty security guards armed with that fatal, yet useless, smile of yours?" He throws over his shoulder. As much as it infuriates me, the man has got a point. I take off after him.

We head down the labyrinth of halls to a secured door with an eye recognition lock. Luckily, his retina is already programmed in. It makes me wonder, how high up is this man, and if he is in so deep, why does he want out?

 _It's not that weird, Keira, you should know_. _Isn't that exactly what happened to you?_

It's true, I wanted out. Because once you get in, almost nothing can pull you away. Luckily for me, I had… a friend… of sorts. One whose stupid ass I'm trying to currently save.

The door opens to an armory stock worthy of the United States Army. I suddenly wonder if the Masteria an arms dealer as well.

Mathias (at least, that's what he told me his name was) grabs a pistol and tosses it to me. I snatch it just as I kick off my shoes. Running in those heels kills. I grab a knife and stow it in the only safe place one may stow a knife in a pocket-less dress, which makes Mathias grin wolfishly. I promise with my eyes that I will castrate him if he so much as thinks anything too loudly. Happily for him, he keeps his perverted thoughts to himself and turns back to his gun with a grin still on his face.

We grab our weapons and head out back the way we came. If I remember correctly, which I do, we should take this corridor down the left, go straight for fifty feet, then turn right, go another thirty, take a right, forty feet, and then the doorway on the left.

I pelt around the first corner, but Mathias grabs my arm and pulls me back with a yell just as bullets whiz by, exploding the dry wall right where my head had been.

"Treat every gun like it's loaded. Safety 101." I can hear his tone dripping with patronizing sarcasm.

"Thanks, you keep that in mind when my gun is pointed at your temple," I respond through gritted teeth. I take a deep breath.

_First, lock arms._

_Second, clear corner._

_Third, locate hostiles. Ten feet away. Ten security guards, half approximately 230 pounds, the other approximately 300 pounds._

_Fourth, round corner._

_Fifth, take aim._

_Sixth, pull the trigger._

They are the elementary steps I learned in my months at the Academy. I learned exactly like this, waiting around the corner as hostiles shoot from down the hall. The first five steps are easy, it's the sixth that makes me freeze.

I've rounded the corner, I have to shoot. But I hesitate. I made the huge mistake Barton told me never to make, because it can cost your life. I almost pay with mine. A single bullet rips through my side. I can feel the skin tear, giving way to the cold metal that perforated my side.

I  _still_  can't shoot. This isn't going to work.

Cursing under my breath, I ditch the steps. I run out from our cover and pray to the good Lord that this works. I have one other trick up my sleeve. I, being my paranoid self, wasn't content with just a sleep serum, but until now my little trick wouldn't have worked.

I rip a small disk from the lining of my dress, press the button, and slide it to the guards. Immediately they start choking and waving the thick cloud of smoke that rises up and smarts in their eyes. I rip another strip of my dress and tie it around my mouth. I must focus on the task, so I must forget about the pain.

Silently, I take down the first one. The second. The third. They are too easy. In the dark mist, they go down like flies. My breathing is shallow. The smoke is starting to affect my lungs and I am slowly losing more blood, but I do not indulge the urge to cough. I must stay completely silent. I am on the fifth when I remember I'm not alone. Mathias easily strikes one down. His fighting style is quick, efficient, and smooth.

Suddenly, the guard I am choking sucks enough air to make a strangled yell. Two of his colleagues come barreling towards me. I let go of one (and jam my knee into his nose) in order to round on the other two. They are the stereotypical guards. They fight without finesse, efficiency, grace or style. All they know are punches and maybe the occasional kick.

But it's when one of them begins to use his gun that I have to take extra measures. I raise my own and easily shoot him in the kneecap. When he falls, I kick the gun from his hand. I turn just as it happens. Just as another sharp  _crack_  tells me a gun was fired. I expect to feel another bullet through my flesh, and for a moment I panic. But nothing comes, and I see why.

Mathias stands, looking bloody and slightly battered. A gun is in his hand and I see where the bullet went: into the brain of the last guard. " _What was that for?_ " I nearly scream at him.

"Do you have some weird "no killing" rule like Batman or something?" he asks with his usual arrogance.

"You just  _shot_  a man." I can feel my breaths come in quick succession. My heart beat is increasingly gaining speed.

"Yes, and you almost just risked our lives by taking unnecessary risks."

"I just  _saved_ lives by taking unnecessary risks," I reply in a thick voice. The smoke is clearing, but it is watering my eyes. "But I don't expect you to understand that because you are a screwed up son of a bitch." I cough. It sounds watery.

I lean down to pick up a gun. Suddenly, he's next to me. He grabs my arm and pulls it away from my side to reveal the spreading blotch of blood. I hear a sharp breath leave his nose and he looks up at me with a tight mouth and an expression of barely concealed annoyance, but my eyebrows involuntarily furrow when I see a hint of something I never expected to see from anyone except Clint. Concern. "When were you going to tell me you got shot?"

"I wasn't," I spit as I pull myself away from him. I turn away and wrap my arm protectively around my waist. With a wince, I lean down once more to grab a gun. He doesn't stop me. I can feel the sweat trickle down my temple. In this small moment of silence, I begin to feel the adrenaline ebb. It is like a flowing tide that is leaving my body and replacing it with the stark reality of dry land, or in this case, pain. The bodies strewn around me, most of them are breathing… but one is not. Is this going to become my reality? I did this. This is my handiwork. I can feel it in my mind. I can feel the gears clicking. Everything is 'agent' mode. The way I think. The way I breathe. The way I move. It is all precise. One after another. Efficient. I am an agent. Everything that has been drilled into me at the Academy is taking over my body on instinct. I never felt this focused at the Academy, in all their simulations, in all the tactical choices I called, but out here everything is strikingly clear. Out here, surrounded by these bodies, I finally realize what everyone was talking about. I am physically trained. I am mentally trained. But nothing can emotionally train you but the experience itself. My mind may think in perfect, efficient synchronicity with my body, but my emotions are far behind. Suddenly it makes so much more sense why all the hardened assassins leave their hearts at the door. Because if they didn't, something as fragile as that would be broken in a heartbeat out here. Something as fragile as that, once broken, cannot be repaired. Something as fragile as that has no place in this world of pain and survival.

"We need to find the security room," I murmur. I turn my thoughts to the mission and push all other doubts to the back of my head. The main priority is getting out alive so I'll have some emotional shit to sort out later. Mathias nods and begins to follow me down the maze of corridors. I locate the correct one and easily kick it down. All the guards are gone, but I have no doubt more will be coming soon.

I drop my gun on the desk and quickly type commands into the system. Relays appear, scrolling before my eyes. I know this. I knew this even before I knew the weight of a gun in my palm or the feeling of smashing a person's nose into their face with my boot.

This is one of the most complicated security systems uplink I have seen in a home. I locate the most useful program to me currently. Facial recognition. I enter Barton's face and quickly set it to scan all of the cameras. It doesn't take long before Clint is pinpointed. I see him in a room, a dark room. He is barricading a door. A few typed commands later, I am staring at about twenty armed guards in the corridor outside trying to knock down the door. I switch the viewpoint back to Barton. He is searching the room desperately for things to add strength to the barricade he has built. "Dumb ass," I mutter. My mind runs over all the options, analyzing them, testing them. I become aware of clattering and banging sounds behind me. "Shut up," I mutter to Mathias as I continue to scan the feeds, hoping to find some idea of what we should do. He still doesn't stop. "I said  _shut up!_ " I growl and swing around.

He stands in the center of the room with a small switch in his hand. "I thought you might want this."

I lunge for it. "That's the radio wave jammer! It's been blocking our frequency."

I can't believe it. I can _not_  believe it.

The bastard.

The stupid, brain-dead bastard.

He actually raises his arm at the last second so I grasp at air and dangles it above our heads. It is then that I become aware of the considerable height difference. He smirks down at me. My outraged incredulity must show on my face because he starts to laugh. It is a low, full laugh that I can feel vibrating from his chest. "Little girl can't reach it."

"Give that to me, Mathias. I didn't kill you once, that doesn't mean I won't change my mind." My voice is low. Calm. Deadly.

"How about you give us another kiss, hmm? Just one on the lips." I want to take my nails across that perfect face. "You seemed to have enjoyed the last one."

Those were the trigger words. I have felt hatred towards him brewing in my chest. A mixture of betrayal (for what? We don't even know each other), hurt, anger, and violation, they all mix together for a very unstable time bomb that he seems determined to detonate.

I don't think twice before punching so fast and so hard he is sent reeling. I easily duck under his arm and twist the jammer from his hand. "Damn, girl," he spits out blood. "I was going to give it to you."

"After you fulfilled your fetish desires?" I ask scathingly.

"You should thank me."

"Oh I should, should I?" you can just feel the sarcasm.

"Yes, if you didn't have me you wouldn't have thought to look for the jammer in the control room and you would never have been able to communicate with Birdbrain. I may have just saved your life. Again."

That's when this weird thing happens. His hazel eyes meet mine. His intense eyes. They capture me. He stands in the shadows, blood running ignored from his nose. I don't see the materialistic playboy I thought he was. I see something deeper. I see a man trapped. I see a hungry man, one willing to do anything for freedom. I see a broken man.

Just like that, the spell is broken. I tear my eyes away and flip the switch. "Barton?"

I watch from the security feeds as he freezes and then his hand flies to his ear.  _"Keira?"_  I clap my hand over my mouth as tears well up. It is also in that moment that I realize just how scared I was that I was going to lose him. I can't cry. Mathias is in the room, Barton is just on the other end of this line. If I cry now I would never forgive myself. " _Keira, is that_ you?" I nod, until I realize he can't see me.

Taking my hand from my mouth, I compose myself as much as possible. My voice only cracks slightly. "Yea, Hawkeye, it's me."

_"_ _Where are you?"_

"We are in the security room. We found the jammer—"

"Technically I found it," Mathias interrupts. I ignore him.

"—and we know your location."

_"_ _Good, then get me a route out of here."_

"There is no route out of that room. You need to blast your way out."

_"_ _That's kind of hard when I have nothing to blast with."_

"It looks like you're in some kind of storage room."

_"_ _No shit."_

"If I am right, there is a package of armed explosives in the left corner of the room."

"How do you know this?" Mathias asks. I can almost detect awe in his voice.

"I memorized the all the intel we had on this place," I reply simply. I turn back to Barton. He has wasted no time in ripping down some of the boxes to reach the ones in the back. "Hang tight, Barton, we are on our way."

"How did this partner of yours even get himself compromised?"

"Uhm, I didn't ask him. I was kind of busy," I retort.

Finally he falls silent and I focus on running and directions. I plan ahead, strategize, what I will do when we arrive, how I will approach, what is the best angle of success. I feel the thrum of adrenaline pumping through like a live wire and I can feel the buzz sprinting brings to my body. I relish it. It's times like this rare one that I realize why I am so addicted to physical and mental stress and thrill.

I cock my gun as we round the last corner and lock arms straight in front of me, just waiting for a moving target. Dust and debris is all that is left of the door after Clint's explosive. I feel the rocks cut the soles of my bare feet and the bullet wound is throbbing. Each step sends another stab of white-hot pain through my abdomen. I have to keep it together.

I hardly notice the shadow of movement, but Mathias sees it. He pushes me aside and sends a bullet through the smoke. I hear yells, but everything is starting to go oddly mute.

_Keep it together Keira. Stay focused. Focus._

Someone grabs my arm. I look up in response to the touch and find both Clint and Mathias staring down at me. I look around and realize I am clutching my side and sitting propped against the wall. I don't remember falling. Clint is saying something I stare at his face and dully try to tune into his words. He is saying something. I know it. He is saying something to me.  _Listen, for God's sake listen to him._

"—Keira! Answer me dammit. Don't you dare close your eyes." Hands pull my arm away from my side and someone starts applying pressure to the wound. I disregard it. If I have a prayer of staying awake I have to focus on Clint.

"Clint, you asshole, why did you cut out on me?" I manage to choke out.

"Why were you stupid enough to get shot?"

I frown. That is a good question. "I don't know." Another wave of dizziness hits and I almost fall over. Clint's hands steady me. "We need to get out of here."

"We're working on that, but we can't go anywhere until you're back on your feet again."

"The storage room!" Both Clint and I turn to Mathias. "There are medical emergency supplies in there." His fingers leave my side and he sprints into the blown-through wall to search the facility. Moments later he is back with a medical kit.

I look down. "There's so much blood," I whisper weakly. The blood has now extended to a patch that reaches right below my bra-line. Mathias and Clint's hands are covered with it.

Clint grabs my face between his hands and makes me meet his eyes. I can feel my blood on his hands and slick between our skin. "I know it's a lot of blood, but I need you to hold on." He doesn't sound worried. Maybe I shouldn't be worried. My thoughts feel fuzzy. Is that normal? I don't think it's normal. "You're going to pull through in a couple of moments and we will get out of this damned mansion, okay?"

"That's really cliché, you know that? Telling someone they're going to be okay. Everyone says that," I reach my hand up and grab his wrist for support, "but it never changes the outcome of the given situation."

"This is going to sting," I hear Mathias say and I turn my eyes to him. There is a syringe in his hand. I automatically shy away from it, but the wall is to my back and Clint is on my left. I can't get away from it. "Don't punch me."

Without giving me a chance to react, he drives the needle into chest and it burns like hell frozen over. " _OH MY GOD_ ," I gasp and double over. The amount of pure, raw energy that suddenly surges through my system sends my brain into overdrive. Everything recedes and all that is left is the stark clearness of the adrenaline that pushes my weakening system back to life. With a yell, I lash out at the nearest living object, which happens to be Mathias. I hear and feel the satisfying crunch of bone as my fist connects with his nose.

He falls back, clutching his face. "Oh, gawd," his voice is muffled from between his hands. "Shee keepths dowing dat," he whines.

Clint claps my shoulder and grins. "Thatta girl."

I would laugh on normal occasions, but I feel manic. With shaking hands I grab the nearest gauze and press it to my side while making a makeshift compression bandage the best I can. Clint's steady hands reach over and start helping me. The dizziness isn't gone, but instead of a weak dizzy it is replaced with a heady dizzy, akin to just stepping off a rollercoaster. "Weneedtofindthenearestexit," my words jumble together a million miles per minute.

"The next one should be two corridors down," Clint responds.

Mathias grabs an extra bandage and holds it to his crimson nose while shooting me a dirty look.  _Good. The bastard deserved it_.

Barton ties off the bandage with a forceful tug that makes me suck in a sharp breath of pain. I grab the wall and pull myself to unsteady feet. Clint reaches out to help me but I push him away and start floundering my way across the debris ridden path. The manic energy won't let me sit still. I can hear Barton and Mathias' footsteps right behind me. Barton was right. As soon as we take a left there is a glowing red exit sign. I waste no time in bursting through the door. I pause to take in our surroundings. Cool grass is under my bare feet and the clear night air is soft and smells of palm and sand.

I start when a sound comes from my right. Guards come running around the corner with machine guns strapped to their chests. "Aww, shit," Barton groans. Someone grabs my arm and pulls me back into the safety of the hall. Mathias and Barton alternate shooting around the corner. I look frantically for my gun, but I must have dropped it around the corner. Since they are both busy with the guards, I decide to go back and get it. They don't even notice as I sprint away and back around the corner. Just as I suspected, my gun is sitting right where I dropped it. I pick it up and check the ammunition to find that I have none left when the crunch of boots come behind me. I whip around to find a startled guard. He lifts his gun, looking so scared he could piss his pants. "Freeze! Drop the weapon!"

I slowly set the gun down and put my hands behind my head. Right then, Mathias and Barton come jogging around the corner. Mathias just get out the words, "Keira! Where the hell—" before I dive away with a shout. Barton gets my warning and just pulls Mathias back before the dry wall of the corner explodes with bullets. I pull the spare knife out of my dress and stand, deaf to both the guys' shouts of outrage, and throw it with deadly accuracy through the hail of bullets. The guard falls to his knees, crying out in agony with his hand pinned to his now useless gun.

"Good shot," Barton says.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mathias actually looks murderous.

"I just saved your sorry ass. Let's move out. You got ammo, Clint? I'm out." He wordlessly tosses me a cartridge and we move as a single unit out the door. I only pause slightly when I see the dead bodies of the guards. Again, it causes a strange feeling in my stomach to see these men dead because of us.  _Don't think. Just act._

Mathias starts heading towards the wall that surrounds this place and we follow. It's about ten feet high with barbwire curled around its top. Clint produces a device which shoots a device that attaches itself to the top of the wall and lowers a rope. Clint grabs it to hoist himself up when I stop him. "Wait! Clint, shouldn't I do it? I'm lighter and faster. I can get up and cut the barbwire."

He shakes his head. "You are weak. We need to get you out before you bleed out."

I feel the truth of his words. The dizziness kept at bay by the adrenaline is now starting to seep back into my system. I'm feeling weaker and weaker by the minute. "No, it's fine." I snatch one of Mathias' knives and clamp it between my teeth. I grab the rope and begin pulling myself up hand over hand before he can protest. I reach the top in less than thirty seconds, but my taxed muscles are shaking. I immediately start on the wire. There are wires crisscrossing in a fence that reaches my forehead. I start sawing at the bottom wires as quickly as I can. It's hard work. More sweat begins to itch its way down my back, neck, and face. Three minutes goes by and I have barely gone through enough to stick my head through the hole.

"Keira, hurry! Hostiles will arrive in approximately two minutes."

"I'm trying!" I hiss back down at them. If I don't make it they will get slaughtered down there. My movements become more frantic. Thirty seconds. Another thirty seconds. I only have a minute. To my eternal gratefulness, Clint and Mathias are silent. Another thirty seconds. Another fifteen. The last wire snaps. "Clint! Mathias! It's finished, hurry up!"

Someone grunts as they come up the line. I wiggle through the hole I made. I balance on the edge of the wall, gingerly holding onto the barbwire fence and try to keep away from the barbs as I steady myself. I see someone come up and under the fence, but I can't make out who it is in the darkness. We wait for the last person. It's silent in the night. Until I hear shouts. And then gunfire.

Just then, the last person hauls themselves over the edge. The little light there is hits him just right and I recognize him as Mathias. I reach and grab his shaking hand, just able to pull him through the hole. His eyes meet mine and he looks grateful. I nod. That is all we have time for. The bullets are just missing us by the angle of the wall. Clint lowers himself and hangs from the wall by the tips of his fingers, before letting go and gracefully falling to the ground with no injury. I start to do the same, but just as I start to get into position, I feel a wave of extreme dizziness. I lose my grasp on up and down, left and right. I feel the world twirling around me as if there was no gravity. Mathias grabs me with a shout. The dizziness passes and Mathias is holding me from tipping over the edge and falling to my death.

I extract myself from his grasp. "I'm okay."

"No you're not," he contradicts. "I'm going to lower you down to Barton," he says it slowly as if he was talking to a child. I scowl at him, but follow his lead as he grabs my forearms and carefully lowers me as far as he can reach.

"I've got her," Clint's voice comes from the darkness below. Mathias releases me and for a moment I'm free falling before I land in Clint's arms without injury. Moments later, Mathias drops next to us.

Stars begin to impede my vision. I struggle feebly against Clint. "Let me walk." He doesn't respond, but he doesn't drop me either. The stars are closing in. "I'm slipping, Clint. Let me walk."

He looks down and I see he understands. I don't want to lose consciousness. I'm afraid I'll never wake up again. "Hold on. We're almost there." His voice comes from far away. "Hold on…" and then everything goes black. The last thought I have is that we made it out of there alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review review review! Thanks for reading!


	16. White Lies

"Hold still you infernal woman," Mathias mutters absentmindedly as he cleans the bullet wound. I hold the hem of my tank top up just under my bra line and lean away to give him access to the wound. Unfortunately, this is a very awkward angle and everything about our situation is uncomfortable. It is incredibly hot in this small room, despite the feeble attempts at aeration by the clanking, sputtering, and dying fan in the corner. My skin shines with sweat and sunburn. I can see the same sheen on Mathias's tanned arms and face. Clint's hair is spiked with and his shirt looks soaked.

I shift again, trying to find an angle that stops the itching of my peeling skin, tickle of trickling sweat, the aching of my muscles as I lean in the awkward angle, and the burn of the alcohol in the bullet wound. Mathias drops his hands and gives me an exasperated look.

"What!? Sorry! It stings," I shrug in defense. He just shrugs back and looks down to apply a fresh bandage and start clearing away the medical supplies. I take the moment to study his face. His lip is cut and a purple bruise marks his cheek bone, but other than that his face is flawless. He flicks his slightly curled, brunette hair out of his eyes. He looks so different than when I first met him. Then, he was groomed, styled, and sophisticated. Now, jeans hang from his hips and a white tank top shows off his chiseled muscles. His hair is messy, but I can't help but think how I like it that way. The way it flattens over his head and the curls around to frame his face. And then his lips, tan, like the rest of him, but just pink enough to stand out. I remember kissing them. I remember the feel of his fingers digging into my hip bones, my body flush against his, his touch igniting a burn deep in my body.

He looks up and I quickly blink away from his warm, hazel eyes.  _Now is not the time for those kinds of thoughts. He kissed you to get close to you, just like you kissed him so you could close enough to stick a needle in his neck. That's the life you live. Don't be a schoolgirl lost in a sappy crush. Once we get back to HQ, SHIELD can decide what to do with him. Then he won't be your problem._

I tug my shirt down and nod a quick thanks to him before standing and going to look over Clint's shoulder. It's been nearly forty-eight hours since our disaster infiltration. I woke up in our SHIELD safe house and we've been camped out here, recuperating, ever since. Clint, the least injured, has been communicating with SHIELD for orders on how to proceed and verifying the intel Mathias spoon-fed us. He told us that any incriminating evidence would be most easily obtained from the buyers rather than the seller. However, he told us basically the location of the Masteria's headquarters from where he runs his little empire. It is bunker right smack-dab in the middle of Russia. It would be a nightmare trying to conduct a bust on Russian territory. While we are not in an outright war, things aren't exactly chipper between U.S.-Russian relations. I, personally, would suppose the customers are our best hope and then we can gather enough evidence for a raid on Russian territory.

But this is all so sticky. First of all, there is Mathias… who, to put it simply, I wouldn't turn my back to if a gun was in his hand. I remember, after I woke up, apparently he and Barton had had a little chat. Barton told me his motives, or at least the motives he will divulge. Mathias said he "wanted out." He told us he would help us if he was granted full immunity after the Masteria was taken down. I suppose that's why it's taking so long for SHIELD to give us orders. They don't know what to do with Mathias. Not yet.

To me there is something nagging my gut. I know there's another angle here. There must be. All we currently know is he was a mercenary for hire and took any job he could find. After landing one with the Masteria, he climbed the ranks until he was the Masteria's right hand man and handled all of the dirty down business affairs, just like when Clint and I were staging ourselves as buyers. But even he never saw the Masteria. The man is a ghost, if he is even a man. He only communicates by burn phones distributed to his workers.

I personally think that Mathias either saw something so horrendous he had to leave that life and switch allegiances, or he just got tired of all the killing. Then again, maybe he felt like he bled all he could out of his previous position and how wishes to move to broaden his horizons.

My more cynical side suspects the later, but my wishful side wants either the first two. With either of the first motives it would require a change of character; a change of character which would show signs of a more honest man. I've been running over the reasons why I would want this. I've been turning them over and over in my head, trying to find if there is anything between Mathias and me other than a onetime saliva exchange in which I felt a connection purely coincidental and he was able to leave unscathed. I can barely understand it. I thought it was just lust, at first, but after I caught a glimpse of that scared, broken man, all I've wanted to do is  _help_ him. But someone who uses other people, kills other people, a mercenary, would laugh at my pity and throw it back in my face.

I'm guarded around Mathias. I don't know what to expect.

Apparently Clint burned through the asset that had given us access to the Masteria. Mathias may have covered for us, but somehow the Masteria got wind of it. That's how we were compromised. Mathias could never return to the Masteria, even if he wanted to. Not with all the incriminating footage that shows him leading us by hand out of the facility.

"New orders from SHIELD just arrived," Clint says quietly. Quietly enough that Mathias, who is on the other side of the room, can't hear. I lean over Clint's shoulder to read the newly arrived instructions.

_Proceed to SHIELD landing site. Rendezvous aircraft for pick up and extraction. Bring neutral into custody for analysis._

So they've decided to bring him in. His set of skills wouldn't go amiss for SHIELD, and they've been known to give second chances if it benefits both parties, so I can't say I'm surprised at their decision. I straighten and turn to Mathias. He is already studying us with a calculating look. He must have seen our exchange. "Time to pack. You're taking a field trip with us to Big Brother."

* * *

It is fairly easy. Mathias came without complaint. We ride a military tank to the landing site in an awkwardly silent and jostling ride. It is when we arrive that it all goes wrong.

Clint and our SHIELD goon squad left to oversee takeoff. I am left to babysit Mathias. I take a seat on a bench beside the runway and clasp my hands behind my head, feeling the warmth of the scorching desert sun against my skin. The bench creaks as he sits next to me. Questions. Questions are burning on the tip of my tongue. I want to know. I want him to tell me why he saved us, why he decided to switch sides. I want to see the truth in his eyes as he tells me. No more dancing around the edges, not quite sure where he stands, if he is telling the truth, if I can trust him.

I open my eyes. "Why did you do it?"

He doesn't have to ask what I'm talking about. He sighs and leans his head against the back of the bench, slouching low in his seat. "I don't know. Well, it depends on what you're talking about."

"I don't know…" I trail off. Because I honestly don't know. "Why did you kiss me?" I blurt out. I didn't know I was going to say that until I did.

"Hm, good question. I kissed you because I wanted to." He wears a saucy grin, as if he knows how much the answer will exasperate me. He probably does, actually.

"You self-centered, egotistical,  _ASS!_ " I can just feel myself going scarlet up to the roots of my hair.

He chuckles, damn him. "See, you're feisty. I like that." He leans his head back again, as if pleased with himself.

"Oh really? Well… well…" I sputter.

"Yes?" He's still smiling.

"Well you can take your falsely cool demeanor and your narcissistic, arrogant cover-up and shove it up your ass." I have absolutely nothing better than that. It's pathetic.

He laughs outright at my poor attempt of insulting. "You should be flattered. I found you intriguing." He's doing everything I hate. I hate it when people act as if I am a puzzle that can be put together, or a mystery that can be solved. "You're so pure."

"Pure? Pure!? You know nothing about me or whether or not I am  _pure_ ," I huff.

"That was the first time you've kissed someone, wasn't it?" he puts forward bluntly.

I stutter a scoff. "Absolutely not! I've kissed… lots of guys…" I sound anything other than convincing.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

I am visited with the violent desire to grab his thumb and twist it back to a sprain. Give me a system, I can hack it. Give me a fight, I can beat it. Give me a mission, I will complete it. But give me  _emotions_? Shit, I might as well run around like a headless chicken. "It doesn't matter," I return hotly. "You're going to SHIELD Triskelion where you will be tried for criminal acts and then they'll haul your ass to the Fridge and I'll have the pleasure of never seeing you again."

He frowns for a moment before his expression clears. "They would never lock me away."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"What makes you so sure?"

"For one, I'm your only way in to the Masteria. I'm not going to throw that information around, am I?"

"You're going to try to blackmail your way out." It's not a question. I feel disgust heavy in my stomach.

"Of sorts. Information is always valuable. So is expertise. After I help you take down the Masteria, I'll demand full immunity and they will give it to me. Besides, I think the information I have will be more than enough to convince them."

"What  _information_ do you have?"

"All in good time, princess."

I swear, he is just asking for another bloody nose.

"So, you'll play it cool. Keep your cards close to your chest, and then when the time is right, deal a hand which will bag this whole operation neatly into your résumé for full disclosure and maybe even a job in SHIELD ranks."

"You said it, not me."

"You disgust me." I can just see him getting away with this.

"Don't judge too harshly. I'm sure you're no saint yourself. After all, how did a girl like you become a child soldier for SHIELD?"

"I volunteered," I spit wryly. "I even got my own little brown shirt."

He actually laughs. It's not one of his condescending laughs, like he's laughing at me, but as if he genuinely finds me humorous. I like it. "Are you going to talk bad about your own agency? I thought you  _agents_  have your own  _code_. Believing your agency is incorruptible or whatever."

I don't bother correcting him that I'm not an agent. Not yet. "I don't have a code."

"Ah, so you  _aren't_  part of the fanatic bunch. What does that make you? An outsider? A lone operative who follows her own morals? Or maybe someone who isn't here because she believes in her work, but because she wants to survive."

That's enough. " _Shut up_ ," I hiss. He wants to start this lowdown dirty game, well I can play along. He can learn the hard way that he is not the best at finding other peoples' weaknesses. "What about you? The drug lord's unflappable right hand man. What got you in that deep? What made you want to start up a life of corruption? Let me guess, domestic problems? When did you first start landing yourself into that world? Did you join a happy gang family at the ripe age of preteen? Did daddy beat you when no one was around to care? And who would have cared? Who would care for the angry little charity boy? Was it a picturesque childhood of blood baths and criminal activity? It's pathetic. That's how they all start out." Each one of my words seems to be a dagger to him. His cocky look has faded away. I can't say I'm sorry. He has no words, I can tell. His nostrils flare slightly. "See, Mathias, you're not the only one to have a gift in the art of subterfuge."

I get up from the bench and leave him there. I know he's not going anywhere, but it's like being chained at the ankle. I can't actually leave, but I get as far away as I can while still able to keep an eye on him. A part of me feels guilty. What did I gain, stabbing him in the back like that? Then again, what did he gain by trying to do the same thing. I am just one clouded mess right now. Hopefully in a few weeks he'll be cooling his heels in a SHIELD cell, assuming he isn't good on his word. I only hope he's bluffing the information.

After that everything is brutally awkward and silent. An awkwardly silent and jostling ride back to SHIELD HQ in the back of a quinjet. An awkwardly silent unloading of Mathias to a SHIELD holding cell where he will wait for nearly a month of psyche evals, phys exams, and interrogations.

* * *

I watch him through the one-way glass with my arms folded across my chest. It has been twenty-four hours since we arrived to the Triskelion. His first interrogation is scheduled in five minutes.

The door behind me beeps softly to let me know the entrance of another person. I know who it is by the lack of footfalls. "You going to watch the theatrics as well, Clint?"

"Nah, I prefer to think of it as a rodeo," he says as he comes to stand by me.

I roll my eyes. "Of course you do."

"It's way more accurate. The interrogator is the rider and the interrogated the bull. You just wait to see how long before the bull gets so angry the rider is bucked off."

"You think Mathias is going to get angry? He shouldn't, if he has nothing to hide." I look up at Clint. He's standing like I am, with his arms folded and watching the glass.

He looks down at me. There is a seriousness in his eyes that is penetrating. It always is. That is one of the defining qualities I remembered him for when I first met him. That  _look_. It's like he can see straight through you. "Not many people have nothing to hide."

"Do I detect a double meaning there?" I state bluntly. I don't like evasive comments or elusive innuendos. Not with Clint. He's my friend. One of my only friends actually. I would prefer to keep the water completely clear as far as he is concerned. Now, that is. A few months ago would have been a different story.

"Something happened between you two." He watches my face carefully.

I school my features into a carefully practiced neutral look. Maybe that's what gives me away. He knows all my masks. "Nothing happened."

"Don't lie to me." I always thought those words would come out harsh or forceful. I suspected they would make me want to clam up and keep my secrets just out of spite, but Clint makes me want to do the exact opposite. He makes it sound  _reproachful,_ and that makes me feel guilty.

I suddenly realize how far we have come. We were two strangers. He saw potential in me that I wanted to hide. I wanted to go unnoticed by the universe. I wanted to live out my life, just surviving day to day, because that's all I knew. Now, I have friends, and a friendship is a give and take relationship. I can't be completely closed off. Not anymore. I take a deep breath.

"If you count the fact that I want to castrate him slowly and painfully, then no there is nothing between us." I rub the heel of my palm against my forehead. The past twenty four hours we have been here have granted me no sleep whatsoever. I sat in my tiny room on my hard cot and stared at the dark wall, haunted by dreams… dreams I haven't had in a long time. The things I see in them… let's just say they are starting to mess with my brain.

He looks me over and frowns. "You should go get some sleep."

I laugh. It holds no humor. "I  _can't_  sleep. Don't you get it, Clint? I've got skeletons. You've got skeletons. Everyone in this line of work has some kind of skeleton, some more than others. I can't sleep. Every time I try, I get these dreams. I dream of the invasion in New York. I dream…" I can't tell him what else I dream. No, wouldn't help anything. Dreams of my past, hazy, like nightmares. I'm not even sure if they are real. Horrors, but horrors I feel in my heart I experienced. I don't remember them actually occurring to me. How does that work?

 _It doesn't, Keira. You're just overreacting. Too much post mission stress. These dreams are just the anxiety of your subconscious_. Somehow I know this excuse is bull.

"What else do you dream?"

I glance back up at him, and immediately regret it. "For God's sake, Clint. Don't look at me like that." His mouth quirks slightly. He must know when he unleashes his sniper stare. That bitch. "It's nothing," I lie easily. I raise my glance to him again and smile tiredly. "Nothing. Just bad dreams."

He frowns, and then smiles back. But his smile looks concerned.

When the door into the interrogation room opens, Clint and I turn our attention to the room. The interrogator is a SHIELD agent, probably some shrink or something by the look of his tailored work suit.

He sets down a file in front of Mathias and begins to flip through it. Classic. "Let's start with your name, shall we? Mathias… Weizner, is it?

"Uh, no. Actually it's Zeke Preissner."

What?

Wait.

What?

I should have seen that coming, I should have seen that coming from a mile away. I'm too tired for this shit.

"Oh… okay then." The interrogator tries to get back on track from that little throw off.  _I am too, pal_. "Age?"

"Eighteen."

"Date of birth?"

"October 23rd, 1993."

"Where were you born?"

"Ukraine."

"What is your current citizenship?"

A small quirk of his lips betrays a sense of irony in…  _Zeke_. What the hell? He doesn't even look like a Zeke. He speaks deliberately, as if waiting for the reaction he expects. "American."

The interrogator stops rifling through the file and fixes…  _Zeke_  (that name is still weird as crap to me) with a stare. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself."

"Oh," he replies airily, "it's the usual mistake of a child story and hell at home. Mother defected and ran around half the globe to get away from the devil. I was born in the Ukraine, but we moved to the backwoods of Oregon when I was still a child. She died in 1996." I see his left eye twitch as he delivers this. He acts as if he is recounting a history lesson. He is separating himself from the information. It must still hurt.

"So then what happened?" The interrogator has his hands clasped in front of him and resting on the table, leaning forward slightly to invade personal space, and almost glaring eye contact to make the suspect squirm under pressure. Zeke looks cool as ice.

"He came," he responds simply. "My father. He came and found me."

"Where were you?"

"On the streets. An orphan just begging for scraps. Ran away from any foster home they sent me to."

"Where did your father take you?"

"Back with him to Germany." He stops.  _Ahh, here it is. I knew his helpful streak wouldn't continue much longer._

"Who was your father? What happened?"

"First, I want guarantees of full immunity."

The interrogator taps the table with his finger. "You'll have full immunity depending on your statement."

Zeke laughs. "I don't think you want to do that."

"Now why wouldn't I?"

"Because I can lead you straight to him. You want the rest of my story, all the information I have on the Masteria, I'll trade it all for that one little word."

"Fine, you have a deal."

"My father was the Masteria. His name is Erik Faust. He trained me. I learned everything I know from him. I started mercenary work a year ago in Faust's network. I've already told you where his main location is, but I can lead you to his correspondence, supplies, customers, drop sites. All of it. I gave you the location of his bunker, but it's useless unless you have my knowledge on entry. Is that enough for you?" He sounds bitter.

The interrogator just stares searchingly. He then abruptly stands up and leaves Zeke sitting in his cell. Zeke stares directly through the glass, at me. It's as if he can see me standing there. His expression is blank. I shake my head slightly in disappointment, even if he can't see me. If he could, if he could hear me, I would tell him what a lying ass he is. He had the nerve to lie to my face and flirt with me at the same time. I follow the interrogator out of the room.

In an adjacent room, I look at the feeds of Zeke, sitting in his cell. The interrogator and a researcher are bent over a computer, most likely verifying the information Zeke gave them. "What the hell is going on?"

They both look up. The interrogator starts forward. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Actually, she is," Clint says behind me. The interrogator immediately stops. I guess Clint's prestige doesn't end with the rookies. He's still got considerable pull here as well.

"I brought in the neutral—"

"He could hardly be considered a neutral  _now_." The interrogator sounds as if he found an Easter egg.

"He is  _still_  considered a neutral." This man is getting on my nerves. "You granted him full immunity. There is a recording and two live witnesses who can testify, don't even think of going back on your deal. You may not have offered it to him in the most legalistic of terms, but you  _will,_ because I have a degree in law and I know all the loops. Including ones that could potentially throw a corrupt government worker out of their agency."

"Are you threatening me?" He sounds completely insulted at being questioned by a… I don't even know what I am. Am I still a recruit? That seems a stretch, considering all I've sacrificed for SHIELD so far.

"You better listen to her. She's got more assets then just a pretty smile and a genius brain." I thank Clint in my head. He's just making me want to root for him more and more.

The interrogator's mouth twitches, as if he tastes something bad. "Very well. As soon as we finish cross referencing him in our data bases, we'll have a clear shot at wrapping this case up."

I don't know what's going to happen. Will SHIELD let him go? Will they try to keep him? Will he be locked away in some rehab facility? Only time will tell. Right now I've done all that I can. I turn on my heel and brush past Clint on my way out. In the hallway, people rush by. Some wear scrubs and push carts full of medical looking stuff, others dressed in business attire, and still others in SHIELD combat uniform. I know Clint is following me.

I just want to get away. The lack of sleep is killing me, but the jittery nerves are worse. I start weaving my way through the stream of people, pushing unceremoniously past them in my hurry to leave Clint behind. I want to thank him for standing by me, but I don't want to talk to anyone right now, especially someone like him, with his sharp eyes and intuitive guesses.

Other things are haunting me right now.

Things I know aren't real, but they keep getting more real with each nightmare.

I used to push these images to the back of my head, but now I can't ignore them. I remember being on the operating table, waking up after the surgery to repair my horrendously broken leg. The one that was supposed to heal the tibia that snapped. But that memory fades in and out, as if  _it_  is the dream and the things that I once thought were just images of my subconscious start surfacing from the recesses of my mind. They are becoming more real then what actually happened… if what I think happened actually happened.

I see myself on the table, but instead of fixing me, they are  _breaking_ me. They are doing horrible things.

Experimentation.

Then it switches. No, of course not. That never happened. I was being healed. By doctors. After a particularly nasty tumbling fall.

They are hurting me. There are wires, and machines.

_No, no Keira, that's not what happened. You took a fall. You had surgery. You know what happened. Don't confuse dreams with reality._

I don't know which is which anymore.

I look around and find myself in my quarters. I don't remember arriving here, but I don't resist the pull towards the bed. I slump into the mattress. I am too tired to avoid sleep. Even if it's riddled with terrors.

* * *

_I feel my pulse pound as I step effortlessly from move to move. "Keep your head up! Up! Get up! Finish the routine! You can do it! Finish—"_

_Suddenly it switches. I am not doing a dance routine. I am holding a gun to a man's head. "—Finish him! You can do it! Get up! Finish him now!"_

_It looks like a computer relay as it jerkily switches back to the dance routine. "Point your feet! Engage your abs! Point—"_

_It almost feels as if my mind is fighting. Fighting these images that I once thought were my past. "—Point your gun! Engage your will! You can do it! Kill him! Become—"_

_"_ _Become a dancer! Be graceful! Keep working! Don't stop! Never stop! Never—"_

_"—_ _Stop! You can become a killer, an assassin. Do it!" My fingers tremble as I hold the gun to this man's head. He raises his eyes. Blood trickles down his face. Emotions flit across his face. Fear._

_"_ _Do it! Complete the routine!" My muscles tremble as I pirouette. I force my head up higher. I have to engage all my muscles. I point my feet. I have to keep—_

_–_ _I have to keep my hand steady. I have to shoot this man. "Complete the mission. Complete the mission, soldier! Do it NOW!"_

_My hands tremble as I hold the gun, my trigger finger tightening. The man looks at me with frantic eyes, the eyes of a man who knows he is dead.-_

_The end of the routine is near, I just have to stick it out till the end. The last note rises to the climax in a symphony of instruments. I hit the last pose perfectly-_

_-I pull the trigger perfectly, right in the center of my target. The man's head._

**"** **NO!"**  I scream into the night. Did I do it? Did I shoot a man? Was I doing a dance routine? Or was I doing something much worse? So much worse.

I look around and realize I'm sitting up with the sheets tangled around my waist. I fall back into my pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut, contorting my face into a mask of fear and shame. I try my best to stop it, but a tear squeezes out and down my sweating cheek. "NO! NO NO NO!" I beat my pillow with my fist. I gasp as a moan escapes my throat. It sounds so anguished. So tortured.

I have to stop this.

I get up and brush the tears away. Occasionally my diaphragm constricts in the aftermath of crying.

I make my way on ghost's feet to the gym. Here, maybe I can think. Maybe I can get my head on straight.

That's it, I just need to get my head on straight.

The punching bag becomes my source of release, as it has many times. I lose myself in the rhythm. It clears my mind. I already feel sharper.

About this little mental problem. What to do, what to do. A part of me wants desperately to tell Clint. But another part, a much bigger part, won't let me even consider doing more than thinking it. If I tell him, or anyone, for that matter, I could be considered certifiably insane. I would be scratched off by some shrink with the "common condition" of PTSD. The default when they don't know what else to do with us dysfunctional agents.

I laugh wryly.

_You're not even an agent yet. Are you going to screw this up THAT soon? You're pathetic._

No, telling Clint is off the table. That leaves me with one option. I wait to see how this develops, see how long it can go and how well I can conceal it. Eventually it will straighten itself out. I have to believe that if I have any hope of fixing this on my own.

The slide of fabric. The whistle of air movement. The slight release of swish of a fist. A fist that isn't my own.

I spin around just in time to block a punch from Barton.

"You're not the same rookie," he smiles mockingly paternally.

"Of all the things I ever was and am, a rookie was never one of them," I respond with a slight quirk of my eyebrow.  _Push your problems to the back of your mind. Deal with them later. Put on a good face for your mentor_.

"Bad dreams again?" He asks. It's an innocent question, but he's digging. I shouldn't have mentioned anything earlier.

Play it off. I turn back to the punching bag. "Nah, just jitters I guess."

He moves behind the bag and holds it steady as I complete my round. "You don't have to keep hiding, you know."

I don't meet his eyes. I can't. If I do, he'll worm out everything. Instead I grit my teeth and pretend to be preoccupied with the bag.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid of you Keira. Learn to keep your mouth shut_. "I don't hide anything."

"Hm, didn't you just say we all have skeletons?" Yes, I did say that. In a delirium of truth that will never slip again. "You're tune changed since then. You had more nightmares?"

"Let it go,  _Clint_." A punch to the bag clearly enunciates each syllable.

"You know you're going to have to have post mission psyche evals, right? They're going to ask you about this exact thing."

_That's when I lie._

"It's very hard to lie to them."

It's like he can read my mind.

_They don't know a liar like me. The only person to ever guess any truth was you… and Ortuso. But I let you both in. These are strangers._

He stays quiet. It's as if he knows the silence I need right now. He doesn't push. Good. I might just snap if he did. The only sound is my fist hitting the pliable leather. It's not as good as flesh, but it's a good substitute.

"How did you like your first mission in the field?" He asks. Small talk. Small talk is good. Small talk I can handle.

How did I like it? "I don't know..." Conflicted. I have conflicting feelings. "It's… it's…" It's futzing terrifying. But I don't know any other way to live. For some reason it feels familiar… like it's what I was born for. I can't imagine living like a 'normal' person. With a job, a car, an apartment, a dog, coffee, a schedule, maybe some school. I wanted that life for so long, but my time at SHIELD has brought home how impossible that would be for someone like me.

"The hardest part is pulling the trigger," Clint says quietly, leaning against the bag. He looks thoughtful.

"Yea…" I sigh. "It is."

"You never did."

"No. I didn't. Don't ask why. You already know."

"I do, but you have to realize… all missions won't go like this one."

"This one was a disaster. We didn't find the objective, we blew cover, we bled your resources in the area. We even brought home a tag along."

"Or we successfully isolated an asset willing to submit needed information about our target. Without him, we would still be blind. Thanks to your 'no guns' rule, we still have him alive. A lot of people would have pulled the trigger and wondered later."

"Are you  _condoning_ my rebellion against SHIELD protocol?" I ask playfully.

"I'm just saying… your willingness to spare life will make your life a hell of a lot easier."

"I thought, as my SO, you should be telling me to take the shot. Isn't that what this whole thing was about? All the training? All the mental and physical preparation? I was supposed to kill on this mission, wasn't I?"

"All the preparation was to keep you from getting yourself killed. But no, you weren't meant to kill anyone. I mean, if the job  _called_  for it, you would have, but you got lucky that it didn't this time. I was waiting to see if you would kill, or if you would have empathy." Here he looks to the floor, and says quietly, "sometimes empathy is more important than hardened indifference."

What is he talking about? I was wrong? All this time, I was wrong. I was wrong. It was a test, but it was a test of character, not of assassination material. It hits a cord, deep inside me. A human part of me. Suddenly my decision to stay with SHIELD, with Clint, seems to be the best one I ever made in my life. He isn't a cold blooded killer, he isn't trying to turn me into one either. All the doubts I ever had over the past year suddenly vanish. I may be wired to find the weakness in any human body, or the exit signs and possible escape routes in any room, but I'm not a trained killer. He doesn't want me to be one. He just wants me to be… I don't know what he wants me to be, but we'll get to that later. For now, I just know that Clint Barton is my first and foremost trusted ally…  _friend_.

"Did you do it for someone? Not pull the trigger?" I ask curiously.

He raises his eyes to meet mine. He has a small smile. "Yea… yea, I did do it for someone once."

"How did that turn out for you?" I ask.

"It was the best decision I ever made."

"You know, Hawkeye, for humans, you're not half bad."

"For bitches, you're not half bad yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review and I will love you forever


	17. Matters of the Heart

I wish I could say the following days were all a blur. To some extent, they were. Interrogations, investigations, and all manner of exams took place, one after another, on Zeke. He was under constant surveillance. Doctors of all types of PhD's stood behind the glass scribbling notes onto their clipboards during each exam. Just the sight of them disgusts me. I don't want them near Zeke, studying him like he's some sort of criminal who is disposable enough to do behavioral experimentation on.

This brings me to another point.

What do I feel about Zeke?

If I am honest with myself, I am one-hundred percent positive that I have 0 percent of an idea.

All I am trying to do right now is get him through this alive. Figuratively. Does this mean I care for him? Maybe. Does this make me stupid? Of that, I am one-hundred percent sure. I'll sort out all the other feelings later.

There is one particular day, though, that stands out in my mind with crystal clear clarity. I remember every second of that day. Or particularly, a single part of that day. I got paged that my post mission psyche eval was scheduled for later that day. I was filled with an unshakeable dread that I labeled as paranoia. Nothing new. Just go in there, tell a few white lies, and walk out. Nothing to be nervous about.

Boy was I wrong.

The bastard, Richer Harris. Somehow  _I_  got stuck with him  _again_. Of all SHIELD's medical, that one. I remember walking in, seeing his piercing blue eyes, hawk nose. I remember wiping the cold sweat of my palms on my jeans.

 _"_ _Sit,"_  he had said, cordially.

I didn't.

I thought about running for it, but how would that look on my file? Horrible. No, no running.

 _"_ _I would prefer not to,"_  I responded. Then it was procedure checkup. He asked how I felt about the mission. I answered honestly. I thought it was a disaster. He asked why I brought Zeke.  _Lie,_  I told myself. So I did. It slipped off easily. So easily I almost convinced myself. " _He was an asset. He volunteered vital information on our target and willing cooperated with my investigation."_  It wasn't a complete lie. The best ones never are. Just a taste of truth. Either way, the shrink swallowed it. He asked how I was sleeping.  _Lie again_.  _"Restfully. I just don't have time to get enough." Add a touch of a small smile, look down, look back up and casually meet his eyes. Relax posture. Breathe evenly. Look expectant for his next question._  That was the formula I followed. It seemed to work. He asked how I felt about pulling the trigger. I felt my heartbeat spike and a sweat just start to accumulate at the center of my palms. I pushed both reactions back. I forced myself to regain control of my body.  _"It was difficult, but it was necessary. I always do what is necessary."_  An odd smile and look of what I can only describe as  _amusement_ touched his cold eyes. It was like he had found something he had been searching for. My brow furrowed as I noticed his body signs. A leaning forward, a narrowing of the eyes. He  _had_  found something. Was it that phrase? I didn't understand.

 _"_ _What makes you say that?"_  he asked.

I felt unnerved. Something I didn't understand was going on.  _Tread carefully,_  I told myself.  _"Nothing."_ I gave a slightly breathless laugh,  _"it just kind of came out."_

He leaned away, but his eyes still seemed keenly interested. The rest of the session was uneventful, but I can say I had to restrain myself from running out of there.

I think back over it as I walk through the maze of the Triskelion. It's been running around and around in my mind. I can't say why. He didn't do anything to trigger another melt down. He was warm, even, but I know when someone is false. He is false. Everything about him is false. Calculating. What little warmth he had was so calculated that what warmth and cordiality was there simply bled away. I don't understand, but I also know when there is something I don't understand. Something I'm skipping over. Something big. And it's driving me insane, figuratively. Although, maybe I am insane. I feel insane.

The dreams keep coming back. Stronger and stronger each time I sleep. I stay in my room all night now. I don't want to have another run in with Clint. I've started putting on makeup to hide the circles under my eyes. Those circles seem to be permanent.

Also, I have restricted clearance to the training center here, which is hell. After a checkup at the infirmary, they said my bullet wound needs three months to fully heal, and until that time I have to "minimize my physical activity." What a load of bullshit. Three months of no stress relief. Three months of inactivity while my body grows lax from the lull in bruises and beatings. Now I spend my days working on marksmanship, the only place I'm not restricted from. Apparently shooting a gun isn't considered extreme physical duress.

The earmuffs are now fixed over my head. I can still hear the muffled fire of the gun and feel the kick. One, two, three, four, five. All the bullets rip through the center of the target. As always. Clint's mentorship doesn't go amiss. I'm always spot on. Then again, who wouldn't be, with the world's possibly greatest marksman as a teacher?

My days have blended together in one monotonous schedule. Leave my room, go to the cafeteria for breakfast. Ignore all other SHIELD employees. Not only is everyone a good ten years older than me, they all are talking about things I have never heard before, and maybe don't even have clearance for. Go to the shooting range. Maybe go check up on Zeke sometime, through the one way glass of course. Go to lunch. Wander the halls. Try hacking a couple systems. Go to the shooting range. Go to dinner. Stay in my room and spend the night screaming into my pillow.

Lord, when did my life become such a wreck? Is it just me, or is this a sad existence?

The most I got to shaking things up was that one time I spent the afternoon trying to enter the training facility. After a forged card, a pick pocketed card, a lock explosive, espionage, ventilation stake out, and system hacking, I entered exactly eight times before they finally got fed up of bringing security to kick me out. Then they just gave me a job to keep me preoccupied. Something to do with their computer systems. I don't remember anymore.

Clint has been busy. I never really ask what he's up to.

Suddenly, my pager beeps. A change. I'm called to… Director Fury's office. Interesting.

I pack up the gun and start weaving through the constant crowd of SHIELD employees to the glass elevator. I punch the top button and wait patiently as I leave the ground far below. Fury must have a sweet view.

I step off on the top floor and come to his door. I swipe my card and it lets me in. I walk in and freeze. Okay, this is not what I was expecting.

Director Fury stands by his desk. I can see him through the glass screen in the center of the room. Standing near the screens is Ortuso. He turned around as I walked in. What the hell is he doing here? And then, surprise! Zeke sits at a round table with his feet propped up and leans back nonchalantly, as if this was a frickin tea party. When I meet his eyes, he smirks. Clint leans against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

I don't know how to react, so I don't.

"Matheson, thank you for joining us," Director Fury greets me. I've only met him once, but the man has quite a reputation. Even I feel intimidated by his presence.

"Took you long enough," Zeke mumbles.

I clear my throat and look pointedly at the Director. "Excuse me, Director, I was only just notified of this meeting."

"Understood." Fury moves around his desk. Automatically the atmosphere in the room changes. It's business now. "This meeting was called for a specific reason."

"I hope so," Zeke murmurs again. So he isn't just an ass to me. Good to know.

I move forward into the room and around the screens. For a split second, Ortuso and I are face to face. This is awkward. How do we greet? A handshake? Too formal. A hug? Too intimate.

He does it for me. He comes to stand next to me and directs his attention towards Fury, but our hands brush. I can see a twitch of a smile in the corner of my eye. I twitch a smile too. I forgot how much I miss him. We cross our arms and plant our feet at the same time. We are in sync. Oh, the good old days. We make a team. Out of everything that sucks in my life, which is my life, he is the one thing that flows. He is the one thing I can count on.

We act like a team. We look like a team.

It's then that I catch Zeke staring at us. A curious expression is on his face. It's darkened with confusion, but also… dare I say it, jealousy? What would he have to be jealous of? We're not friends. We never were. I never trusted him the way I trust Nathan.

"You may be wondering why I chose all of you specifically. Agent Barton, would care to elaborate?"

I turn my eyes to Clint. He pushes off the wall and comes to stand by the table, pushing Zeke's feet off of it. The table illuminates with holographic images, like the glass screen in the center of the room. He taps several images and a map with points on it shows up. "Preissner has been kind enough to pinpoint all of the Masteria's locations. He has also brought to our attention that the Masteria doesn't only deal in drug dealing. He's created an empire on all types of trafficking, but more importantly he has developed a research facility that is creating advanced technology, rivaling that of our own—"

"That's not very difficult," Nathan murmurs in my ear. My snort of laughter draws everyone else's attention.  _Cough, cough_ , disguise it. And I feel like we are back in preschool.

"They experiment in genetic manipulation. Based on the small surveillance we've been able to set up in the past week, he could be creating a very powerful biological weapon."

Whoa, how was I not caught up on this? Did I really miss that many interrogations?

"And this is your father?" Nathan asks Zeke, point blank. Pfft, I can't laugh. I can't.

If looks could kill, Nathan would be murdered and left in a dump. "No, dumbass, he was my fairy godfather."

I can see Nathan is just itching to give him a scientific response about the mythical qualities of fairy godmothers... in this case fathers.

"The  _reason_  you were  _brought here today_ ," Fury interrupts, looking slightly exasperated, that one eye glaring at all of us, "was so that we could debrief you all on your  _mission_."

Whoa, whoa, whoa... whoa…  _our?_  Clint and mine, he means. He must. This is  _our_  mission, not Nathan and Zeke's. Or maybe just Clint's. I could work with Ortuso. In fact, I would look forward to it. But with Zeke? I can hardly see Nathan and Zeke cooperating in the same room, let alone the same mission. Hell, I can hardly see  _myself_  cooperating in the same room with Zeke.

"Ours, sir?" Nathan echoes my thoughts. He looks just as incredulous as I feel. My eyes dart to Zeke. His face is dark. I see more and more of this face. Maybe there's a darker person under his jokester, lax attitude. I glance at Clint. He has his agent face on.

"Yes, Ortuso. The three of you are going to start taking down Masteria cells until every single one of them is wiped off this map."

"With all due respect Director, I think Zeke is too close to the mission. The Masteria is a close relation of his and—"

"Trust me, princess, I can handle my personal life," he still looks dark. This worries me.

"This was taken into account, Matheson, and we have decided that his presence is vital to the mission as his knowledge of the Masteria will be critical to your success." His one eye fixes on me for a moment longer. I pinch my lips together, obviously not pleased with this response. The Director then addresses all of us. "In light of your upcoming assignment, it has been decided that protocols for the upgrade of your status to agent have all been suspended. Welcome to SHIELD, agents. You will receive your information regarding the assignment on your desks. I expect you to be debriefed by the time you ship out tomorrow at 0500."

Clint tosses us each a badge. Well… that was sudden. I look down at the shiny metal and leather in my hands. This is what I've worked so hard for this, do I even want it?  _Yes,_ I tell myself firmly.  _This is your one way ticket to a secure life, a job, something to do with yourself. This is what you want._  We are clearly dismissed. I glance at Ortuso. He barely glanced at his badge, but he's studying the screens. I know he is committing them to his photographic memory. I almost forgot how distant he is from SHIELD. He's here for information. He doesn't trust. He's calculating with everything. He holds no sentimental value. Except with me. I would be lying if I said it didn't make me feel…  _special?_  But something deeper than that. We are so different than Zeke. I glance at him too. He is studying his badge like I was. Suddenly, I feel irked. He barely had to do anything to get his badge. All he had to do was trade information. I had to sweat blood and shed tears for this moment. I look at Clint. He gives me a smile. It's so unexpected in this professional setting. On second thought, all of it seems worth it to have his approval.

We file out and down the hall, leaving Clint and the Director behind. Ortuso and I automatically fall into step, both of us caught up in our thoughts. A solo mission would be hard enough, but now I have to worry about other variables. Other people. People I care about. This is going to suck so bad.

"So do you two… know each other?" Zeke asks. I snap my attention to the present. We are in the elevator. I really need to start focusing on how I get places.

"We met at the SHIELD recruit academy," I supply because Nathan is simply studying Zeke. This is so very awkward. I suppose we should all get used to it.

"You look like you could be brother and sister or something."

"Nah," I don't know what else to say. I wonder what it must be like to be Zeke. No family. No friends. Not here at least. A father… a monster for a father. He seems untouched by this fact. I wonder what must have happened between them to make him consider his father so coldly, with so little respect. You would think the evil mastermind families would stick together.

Apparently not him. Whatever happened, he decided to change his path. Like me. The thought comforts me.

The rest of the ride is silent. We hit the main level and I start to walk out of the elevator when Zeke's hand shoots out and closes around my elbow. "Mind if we talk?" he asks.

"Uh." Um, yes, I would mind. "No?"  _What?_  You are officially the dumbest person I know, Keira.

"Give us a minute?" Zeke asks pointedly at Ortuso, who nods stiffly and moves off. Zeke pulls me through the constant crowd and into a dark hallway. He lets go of me and crosses his arms over his chest. His face is covered in shadow, but I can guess the dark look has returned to his face.

"This is cozy," I remark wryly. "What do you want?"

He laughs. It's frigid. "If only you knew, Keira." I hate it when he talks to me like I'm a little girl. "I think the question is, what do you want?"

"What?" I ask, confused. I really am lost.

"I know what you did for me. Without your testimony, SHIELD would have tossed me out. Without your constant surveillance, they could easily have gone back on their word. All the bad things I've done…" he trails off, but he actually looks upset. He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes look slightly glazed, like he's living in the past.

This conversation went a very different direction than I thought it would. I instinctively reach forward to place my hand on his muscled arm, but stop myself halfway through the action, my hand hovering in mid air. I start to pull back, but he grabs my wrist. What do I say? What can I say? "I've done bad things too. Everyone can start over."

He stares at me for a moment. Then a smile tugs his face. I'm suddenly aware of the lack of space between us. "How do you do this to me?" He whispers. His breathing isn't quite as even as it was before. His fingers that encase my wrist feel like a circle of electricity. I'm intensely aware of the rough callous of his thumb against the sensitive skin on my wrist, right beneath my palm.

"What?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer, but lets his eyes travel across my face, taking in all its detail. 

I pull away, but he doesn't release his grip. His other hand moves from around his chest to around my waist. He pulls me forward. I stumble a bit, partly from digging my heels in and partly from my legs feeling like jelly. I feel trapped by his eyes, again. They are so deep, so warm. That undeniable attraction that I have been trying to avoid the past month is suddenly staring me in the face. There's no denying it now. Not like this.

He leans down and presses his forehead against mine, lips inches away. I should think. I should be thinking right now. But I can't think. I can't think. And then his lips press against mine. They are soft, not heated, like before. But they are persistent. They are talented. But I can't do this. He presses into me harder, trying to draw a reaction. Trying to get me to kiss him back, but I refuse. It's the hardest thing I've done in my life. His mouth is sweet and intoxicating and his burning touch makes me want to stay in his arms forever, but I know this won't last. I push my hands against his chest and break the kiss.

"We can't do this," I sound out of breath. I feel out of breath. He doesn't respond, but I can feel his deep breaths against my lips. "We have a mission. We can't be compromised as partners. SHIELD protocol." He presses his lips against mine again. I feel his lips move as he mumbles something inaudible that contains the words "to hell" and "protocol". I pull away. "Zeke, I— "

His finger across my lips stops me. "Don't. Don't say anything." And then he reluctantly pulls away. I cross my arms over my chest. He does the same. The distance between us might as well be a mile.

"This has to stop. I've worked too hard to get here to have SHIELD bench me for something like this." That's not the truth. I can't be close to another human being. Period. Am I just social anxious or what is my deal?

There's a flash of something in his eyes, and then it's gone before I can understand it. His face slides into a bored expression as he leans nonchalantly against the wall. 

**Zeke's P.O.V.**

Her skin is so soft, so pliant. It is so different than the brutal reality of her skills. With her dark hair surrounding her like a halo and the creaminess of her skin, flushed with heat, she might as well be an angel. When I first saw her, she was no different than any other woman. When I used her to get my way into SHIELD at the party, she was no different than any other woman. I've never particularly  _cared_ for women, or anyone, before. They have their uses, just like everyone else. I want them, and then I want them to leave me alone.

But Keira is different then other women. She's not what I expected. At the party, I was playing her, trying to get her alone, and then I found out she was doing the same to me. She was playing the same game I was, and she won. That's the first time a woman has done that to me. When I saw her risk her life for her partner, when she took a bullet to minimize the body count, she succeeded in something no one has succeeded with me before. She caught my attention. 

Now I want her attention.

She's cool and collected in the field, but she's lost when it comes to matters of her heart. I haven't missed the way she tenses when she catches sight of me, or when her breathing stops when I lean close to her. If I'm honest, all this is, is me toying with her, trying to get a reaction from her that is the same she draws from me, even if I hide my own reactions better.

When pulled her into the kiss, I began out of spite. I wanted to  _make_ her melt into me, to fall for me so I could leave her in the dust, but that didn't happen. She didn't  _want_ me. She resisted. She never kissed me back. I'm reminded of our kiss undercover, when she was playing me. She gave herself up the kiss, and the sweet triumph was like nothing I'd ever felt before, but this kiss isn't the same. She pulls away from me.

"We can't do this," she whispers. Her voice is so soft. "We can't be compromised as partners. SHIELD protocol."

I lean forward and kiss her again, hoping to distract her as I mumble, "To hell with SHIELD and their stupid ass protocol." For a second time, she breaks this kiss,

"Zeke, I—"

I put my finger to her lips to stop her from talking. "Don't. Don't say anything." I don't want her to say she's sorry, I don't want to hear excuses. Not like this. Not when she's innocent enough to believe I'm doing this because I may be in love with her. 

She pulls away and crosses her arms over her chest. I can just feel the wall she's creating between us. "This has to stop. I've worked too hard to get here to have SHIELD bench me for something like this."

I know she's lying. SHIELD has nothing to do with this. This is all Keira. I can't do this to her. I can't make power plays to gain more power over her then she has over me. I can't because she won't let me, but also because it's me being stupid. She's a bigger person then that. I can't distract her from her mission, and I can't get her to fall in love with me. I can't toy with her. Suddenly, I realize I've developed something else for her, respect. She has my respect. 

My first reaction to her words is anger, but I mask it. I put on a bored look and lean against the wall as casually as I can. Usually when I do this, girls are infuriated. They always want kisses to  _mean_ something to me, but not Keira. If anything, she looks a little relieved.

"We can just be… friends," she finishes lamely. "Allies."

"Allies," I test the word. "Allies it is." I flash her a smile. She doesn't smile back. 

Her arms are still crossed defensively, but her chilly body language has relaxed. "You know I'm still mad at you, right?" There is a playful tone in her voice.

"Really?" I ask with a quirked eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe. Usually girls never stay mad long at my charming roguishness." 

"Well they're stupid then."

"Or they have good taste. What did I do that offended you so badly?"

"You kissed me, twice."

I grin down at her, "Well they say three's the charm."

She laughs outright. "Let's not try to bust that myth. We need to focus on our mission."

"How exciting could it be? It's just a glorified surveillance detail"

She smiles, but doesn't respond. There is something behind her eyes. Something I can't quite put my finger on. I'm not sure I like it.


	18. Trust to Survive

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I swear I am going to shoot something. We've been on this damned mission for nearly three months now. All Masteria contacts have simultaneously gone underground. Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences. It's all I can do to outright blame Zeke when every turn we take is blocked. After all, who could help being suspicious when the enemy seems to know our moves before we even strike. It's like they all know we're coming after them. Like they've been warned.

But I can't doubt Zeke, not now. If we start fighting amongst ourselves, we won't last very long in the field. Nathan, however, is not so conservative in his doubt. When Zeke happens to be away, sly hints and rebellious, dark comments about our comrade are the order of the day. Right now I'm dealing with another of his tirades.

I lean forward and rub my forehead wearily, "for the hundred thousandths time, Ortuso, Zeke isn't a spy."

"Then how do you explain—"

"I don't know how to explain it," I interrupt waspishly, "but I know that this mission will blow to the high heavens if we don't learn to work with each other, and I'll be damned if I screw up my first mission." I push my chair back up and walk away. As far as I can in our confined space, that is.

"Keira," he starts again. He sounds like he's reasoning with a child. I hate it when he does that. "We have to entertain the possibility that we're being blindsided, and we shouldn't let our emotions or prejudices get in the way of our job." He says it sternly, as if delivering a lesson.

"For Christ's sake, I have just as high of an IQ as you, don't talk to me like I'm a doe-eyed three-year-old!" I round on him. "And that emotional shit is rich coming from someone with a very biased hate of the very person we are discussing."

He looks taken aback, his grey eyes large and innocent. "I do not have a prejudice against him!"

"Bull," I deadpan. "You've had it out for him since you first laid eyes on each other." I collapse back into my previous seat and resume my position of hopelessly rubbing my fingers against my pounding headache.

"That would be unprofessional," he shrugs self-righteously and turns back to his computer screen. Unprofessional, my ass.

"We've had this discussion a million times, and my answer is the same, if we can't work out petty differences, then we might as well call Fury and tell him…"

Zeke strides in, causing me to let my sentence die off. "Tell Fury what?"

"I need a pay raise," I finish dryly. He quirks his eyebrows in agreement and sets a cup of steaming, black coffee in front of me. I wrap my hands around it gratefully and try to convey my utmost thanks from the depths of my heart as I raise the nectar of life to my lips.

"Made any progress?"

"Surprisingly, we had an enormous breakthrough in the past five minutes that completely rectifies three months of absolutely no progress," I chirp with a falsely cheery tone. Zeke doesn't laugh but grunts in acknowledgement. Nathan turns to me and frowns, waiting as if expectantly. I stare back, until I realize what his problem is. "It was this thing called sarcasm, Nathan."

His mouth forms an "O" as realization dawns. He contemplates it for a moment, as if humor is some kind of abstract concept, and then turns back to his data.

I roll my eyes. I need to get a life.

A small notification beeps all our phones. We scramble for them simultaneously. Nathan gets his first. "New orders."

I open my message and read aloud, "locate a known Masteria base in Spain. Observe from distance, do not engage nor attempt to make contact. Notify your handler for further instructions when this is accomplished."

"'Do not attempt to make contact,' what, do they think we'll knock on the front door or something?" Zeke sneers bad temperedly at the screen.

"I believe they were attempting to restrain us from any possible way of notifying them of our presence, such as an attempt to send a warning, or perhaps—"

"I  _know_  what they meant, Ortuso," Zeke snaps.

"Then why did you ask?"

"It was rhetorical," I murmur automatically as I gaze blankly over the rim of my cup, only half listening to them. I'm very used to their spats and having to mediate for them. Somehow, after three months in close quarters with two of the most sarcastic people in this business, Nathan still hasn't created an applicable algorithm for humor. "We need to take the first transport out of here," I comment, glancing down at my watch. We're currently stationed in some SHIELD base in Mexico, we've been hopping bases nearly each week for the past three months. Nathan is already pulling up the transport schedules in the system.

"The first one to Spain is an hour from now."

"Sounds great to me."

oooooOOOOOoooo

It was four p.m. by the time we got out of there, SHIELD duffle bags packed and ready. I study the coordinates for our first Masteria base. This is a significant change of plans. All SHIELD has been having us do is track possible Masteria contacts all over the planet, but as said before, they've all been dead ends. SHIELD, or Fury, I should say, is probably getting desperate enough to start sending us into the line of fire, going straight for the source, or as straight as we can get anyways. He's still aiming for stealth, apparently, with his orders of no contact, but I don't know how long that cover will stay, especially if my suspicions are proven true of the Masteria being informed of our movements somehow.

I sit next to Nathan on the transport with Zeke across from us, all of us strapped in and bouncing with the turbulence. Nathan has his tablet out just like I do, except he isn't studying our mission. I glance at his work, and do a double take.

I type a quick message and furtively slide it over to his screen. ' _Why are you still working on that? This isn't the academy anymore, we have level four access.'_

He barely blinks an eye at my message and responds ' _All the more reason. You and I both know Fury has his agendas. We'd be fools to think that just because he's on the side of the angels means he's as clean as one.'_

I immediately type my response and send it flying back to him, ' _Then what would be the point of this system? They give orders, we obey. We aren't supposed to have the full picture. Things would go to hell if every soldier thought they were entitled to know everything their superiors know.'_

His fingers blur as he responds, ' _Don't tell me now you're beginning to trust them.'_

_'_ _This has nothing to do with trust. This has everything to do with just doing our duty and putting the mission in a bag.'_

_'_ _What if the information they keep is vital to our lives? They play the game well and in that game the pawns go first. I have never allowed myself to be used as a pawn, and neither have you. That's why we banded together in the first place. We are survivors. Are you saying now that you'll just throw your life away from this organization?'_

His response stops me. Have my perspectives changed? I stare at it for a while, unseeing, trying to work out the response in my head before I let my fingers type. I see him glancing at me in the corner of his eye, confused at my lack of response. But I have none. No response for the logic that kept me alive my seventeen years. Finally I get my fingers to move, type some sort of response, even if it's not good enough.  _'I don't know anymore. We used this organization to keep ourselves alive, so don't we owe it our lives? So go ahead, keep working on your hacking. I don't think I can help you anymore.'_

With that I shut down my tablet and stare at the dark screen. I don't want to see his response. I don't turn my head because I don't want to meet his big grey eyes. Instead I glance up and catch Zeke studying me. He doesn't turn away, even as I catch him. Did he see that exchange? Probably. He's smarter than Nathan and I give him credit for.

We arrive to our new home for an indefinite period of time. It's just a staple apartment with one bedroom, two beds, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen, and about two miles away from our target.

"Looks like they decided one of us should have the couch," Zeke says, throwing his duffle onto the couch, "so I'll take it."

Nathan says nothing and immediately starts digging out his tech and setting up. I nod in acknowledgement to Zeke and turn towards the window. I pull back the curtains enough to look down into the street of Madrid, Spain, where we are stationed.

It would be beautiful, if I didn't have possible impending murder on my mind.  _It's not murder, it's self-defense._  Of course, the usual standby argument. I close my eyes for a moment and pretend I'm just a normal tourist. I'm just here to shop and sight see, not a care in the world. Maybe some friends or family in the city. Hah. That hasn't and never will be my life. But I can't help but savor the sweetness of the daydream. A wish upon a star that I've longed for my whole life.

I open my eyes and reality catches up. Too bad, I'm sure they have some good shops here. In another time of my life I would've been scoping out possible robbery targets.

I hear the  _whoosh_  of the cushions as Zeke flops down onto the couch and throws an arm over his eyes. Ortuso's keys click as he types commands into his laptop. If it weren't for the cases containing rifles, pistols, knives, and grenades, we might just look like normal tourists.

"I'm going out. Play nice, boys," I announce.

Immediately Zeke shifts his arm to watch me grab my Glock 29 and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans. "Where are you going?"

"Take a look around the city, maybe scout some locations, get a general idea of anything that could be useful." I did this in New York. That city was my hunting ground and I knew it like the back of my hand. Never underestimate the power of a city and the anonymity it brings.

"I'll come with you," he makes to sit up.

"No, I'm doing this by myself." I grab the door handle, about to swing it shut behind me, and then pause, "ask Nathan what you can do. Maybe you can make yourself useful."

As I push the door of the apartment building open and step into the street, I take a deep lungful of the foreign air. One thing I've never done and always wanted was to travel abroad. Being on the metro police wanted list kind of narrowed my options outside the country.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, plug in some rod red earbuds, and start my first (illegally) downloaded song, _Spirit in the Sky_ by Norman Greenbaum. I know exactly where I'm going. The ugly part of town. Certainly not as charming as the tourist areas, but a lot more interesting and suited for my needs. Everyone underestimates the homeless network. They naturally have their ears to the ground, and if one knows how to earn their trust, well, they're a veritable wealth of information.

 _Hotel California_  by The Eagles is playing and I've already made my rounds. A few whispered words here, some cash there, spread the word, find the right people, and I'm all set to go. I begin to make my way back to our apartment when I feel the buzz of my phone. When I check it I see thirteen missed calls from a blocked number. Must be my team. Oops.

"Please tell me you haven't blown cover already," I snap into the phone.

 _"_ _Where the hell have you been?"_  Zeke sounds distinctly pissed.

"I was busy."

_"_ _I've been trying to call you for the last hour!"_

"Geez, cool your jets, you're talking to me now. What do you want?" I glance behind me, around me, even above me, checking for any possible threats as I weave my way back to our apartment.

_"_ _Ortuso identified a possible location of the base. I'm staking it out now."_

I frown. "I thought we had coordinates."

_"_ _That doesn't exactly give us and address, does it? There are three possible buildings in the area."_

"You need backup." I feel honestly disturbed by the idea of Zeke out there with no one to watch his back.

 _"_ _This isn't my first surveillance,"_  his tone holds a serious quality to it, one I've learned he uses on the job despite his apparent lack of enthusiasm for formality. " _I want you on the coms, though. Get your ass back to base."_

"So demanding," I smirk, shooting another glance behind me. Something catches my eye. I could swear I just saw that same SUV take a left behind me a few blocks back.

 _"_ _Don't test me, Matheson."_  I can hear the usual mischievous note in his voice. Do I call it in? I glance back and the SUV is gone. I'm not reassured, if anything I feel a greater sense of dread. No, I can handle this. The last thing I need is my team put into jeopardy.

"No promises. Hey, listen, I'm heading back now. If I don't show up or make contact in twenty, just assume I found some company on the way."

_"_ _Whoa, what? Wait, why would you—"_

"Sorry, pal, I gotta run."

I pull the phone from my ear just in time to hear his slightly panicked, " _Keira! Don't you dare—"_ Even if I get caught, neither Zeke nor Nathan will know where I am. They're only choice would be to call it in and label it an agent capture. Procedure would to be to disavow, pack up, and get the hell out of here. Good. That's what I want them to do if this goes to hell.

I glance behind me again. Still no sign of them. I will stick to the busy roads, there is always less chance of engaging if there are witnesses. Not like a drive by shooting is unheard of, but I highly doubt that if I have a tail in  _my_  line of work (aka assassins, spies, and espionage) they would want to make such a big spectacle.

The screeching of tires up ahead catches my attention. Another black SUV, or maybe the same one, swerves into the busy street from the intersection right ahead of me. I glance behind. There's another. Uh oh.

First instinct: dive into an alleyway, find a hideout, and wait it out. No, no, I can't do that. I don't know this city well enough. I don't have any safe houses. That leaves one other option, stick to the original plan and stay on the street until I can get a chance to ditch them. Then I can make a couple double backs, tour the city even, and make it back to the apartment by tonight when I'm sure I've lost the tail.

I keep walking, searching, probing, looking for a way out. Ah, there it is. I can see my chance. I reach down, grab the arm of a homeless girl who is sitting on the sidewalk in front of a shop, and pull her with me into the store.

To my surprise she follows without a comment. I pull her behind a rack of clothes. "Do you want to make two hundred bucks and an outfit, kid?" She nods mutely. "Switch clothes with me and walk down the street. Keep walking until nightfall. Got it?"

Ten minutes later, I wear an entirely new set of clothes, with my hood pulled over my face. I nod to the girl. She pulls up her hood and walks out, burying her face and walking the way I was going. I wait until I see the black SUV pass, wait another ten minutes, and then head out the opposite direction.

The rest goes entirely as planned. I phone Zeke. It's picked up on the first ring. " _Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on or do I need to personally find you and shoot you in the ass for being such a piss poor agent?"_

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Sorry, I picked up a tail. They're gone now." I keep my head bowed as I walk.

" _This is called a team, Keira, you're supposed to_ _ **tell**_ _us when you're in trouble so we can_ _ **help**_ _you_ ," he sounds extremely pissed now.

"Don't lecture me, Preissner," I snap. "I couldn't contact you or they could trace me back. If they found you or our safe house then they have a direct link to SHIELD. You know that as well as I do."

He sighs, obviously frustrated. I can just see him rumpling his hair. " _There are ways we could've—"_

"No, stop, there aren't. You're just overreacting. I'm fine now. We'll sort this out when I get back to base. I'll be back three hours, tops. I'll update you with a text every half hour so you don't call the National Guard, you idiot."

 _"_ _Dumb ass,"_  he spits.

I hang up. This is going to be quite a long couple of hours.

I make it back in two and a half hours, after doubling back, using alleyways, and doubling back again. No tails. I push the door to the apartment open to find a pacing Zeke and a outwardly placid Nathan.

"You took your time," Zeke practically snarls as he rounds on me.

I hold my hands up in mock surrender, "whoa, bitch. I didn't ask to have a tail put on me."

"Well, you wouldn't have gotten one if you hadn't gone wandering the city in the first place!"

Okay, one point Zeke. "It was worth the repercussions." I turn away to ignore him for the moment. "Do you know of anyone who would know we're here yet?" I direct towards Ortuso.

He shakes his head. "I have nothing. Not one ping." He pauses a moment. It's then that I notice him picking his nails and the slightly nervous twitch of his foot. "Preissner is right, Keira, you should have let us help you." His voice is quiet, but strained.

I glance between the two of them, incredulous. "Oh… what? So you two are ganging up against me now? I liked it better when you were at each other's throats," the snark in my voice is cutting. I brush past both of them and slam the door of the bedroom shut behind me.

The rest of the day is chilly, figuratively. Reviewing strategies, protocols, and our plan of action, but the tension is thick. Eventually I plug in my ear buds and try to get some sleep.

_"_ _What do you think you're doing?" A harsh voice, thick with a Russian accent._

_I look up. I'm on my knees, hands bound, mouth gagged. Blood trickles down my scalp, the concrete is cold and hard against my knees. I could slip the rope around my wrists, but I'd only get in worse trouble. If these people were anyone else, I would. But I'm afraid of these people. They are the only ones I've ever been afraid of in my life. I can feel it. It's a deep dread down in my bones, an animalistic fear._

_"_ _Сука ! Вы опять не с нами . Эта программа не принимает отказ." (Bitch! You failed us again, this program does not accept failure). He strikes me across the mouth. Blood and pain bloom together, one dangerous flower of red._

_Tears sting my eyes. "Пожалуйста пожалуйста, сэр, прошу вас—" (Please, please, sir, I beg you—)_

_"_ _Не прошу, шлюха, мы подняли вы сильнее, чем это." (Do not beg, slut, we raised you stronger than that). Another blow, but I do not fear hits, I know what's coming is much worse. Arms pick me up and pull me away, but they hardly register. All I see is where they are taking me. The Room. The Chair._ _"_ _Пожалуйста! Пожалуйста! Я буду делать все, что вы спрашиваете! Пожалуйста! Я не могу, он сломает меня. Не делайте этого, я дам вам, что вы хотите. Пожалуйста..." (Please! Please! I'll do whatever you ask! Please! I can't, it will break me. Do not do this, I'll give you whatever you want. Please…" ) The words slur together, one hymn begging for mercy. I hardly understand the garbled language coming from my strangled mouth._

_He grabs my jaw, roughly tilting my face up to meet his eyes. "Вам даст нам, что мы хотим. Вам дадут нам информацию. Что, я уверен. Но вы должны научиться послушанию, дочь. Выполнить, и вы найдете удовлетворение." (You will give us whatever we want. You will give us information. Of that I am sure. But you must learn obedience, daughter. Comply, and you will find satisfaction.)_

_A scream of despair hurtles from my throat. He releases me and I fall to his feet. I grovel, brought too low to care, but nothing I do now will change the verdict. I am like a criminal, being sentenced to death, nothing will save me. If only I could find something as sweet as death._ _A cool hand grabs my arm. I continue screaming. I am manhandled to the Chair. It's familiar metal restraints lock around my body. I can see the machine bearing down. I struggle and squeal and sob, but deep down I am calm. Calm because I know I only have moments before everything I have is ripped away. Calm because the inevitable is about to happen. The last thing I see is a man, watching from the shadows,his metal arm gleaming in the sterile light of the room. His face triggers a feeling. A feeling of familiarity, of something I should remember, but I don't. I never get a chance. The all-consuming rage of the beast is unleashed in my head, everything is torn apart. Nothing is left_   _standing_.


	19. The Interpretation of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. It's literally perfect for Keira here.

I jolt awake. I feel myself shaking. At first I think someone poured a bucket of ice over my head, but as the terror of the dream fades and reality seeps in, I realize it's just my cold sweat. Slowly I sit up and suppress a groan as raw irritation shoots across my ribs.

I pull up my shirt up and use my fingers to probe the pink scar on my abdomen. The bullet wound healed well. It was just a crease, the bullet entered me fully, but I was extremely lucky. It only hit the meaty part of my abdomen so I'm not required to have as long of healing time. It must have been rubbed sore from my thrashing. If medical knew it was still hurting this much I would be taken right out of the field.

Right then I sense a presence to my right. I let my shirt fall and lean down as if about to go back to sleep. In a movement so fast it is only possible from hours upon weeks upon months of training, I grab my gun from under my pillow, cock it, and point it straight at my target.

 _Zeke_ … who else did I expect. "You look really creepy, just so you know," I say to him. He doesn't respond from his chair in the corner. I drop my gun on the bed sheets. "Was watching me sleep entertaining?"

He laughs. It doesn't sound humorous, I can detect an edge. "I would consider it more instructive than anything. I never knew you spoke fluent Russian."

So I talk in my sleep. This will make our little sleepovers awkward. "I picked it up," I respond vaguely with a shrug as swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. "I'm getting a drink." Getting water serves two purposes, one is I am actually thirsty and sweaty, two is I really would love to leave Zeke's unnerving stare.

I pad to the kitchen and stand on my tip toes to fetch a glass from the cabinet. When I turn around Zeke is leaning against the fridge. I blow out my breath in annoyance and march to the tap, intent on ignoring him.

"We need to talk about this, Keira." His voice is quiet, he doesn't want to wake Nathan.

"Why? I'm coping." I watch the water bubble slightly as it pours into the glass.

"For how long? You're not getting enough sleep. You're not… healthy." I look over my shoulder at him. His eyes area mixture guarded concern and piercing suspicion.

With a sigh, I rub my forehead with the heel of my palm and try to get my jumbled thoughts coherent enough to give him the answer he needs. "I don't think you understand. There was a time I didn't trust anyone. I spent my days for nothing. I was lost, I had no purpose. Now I'm here at S.H.I.E.L.D. and I have a team. I have a mentor. I  _trust_  you and Nathan. That's much more then I had a year ago. So no, I'm not  _healthy_ , but neither are you, and neither is anyone in this screwed up job." I set down the glass, suddenly feeling sick. He has no idea how unhealthy I am. Every night my dreams are filled with blood and murder. When I decided to keep this to myself, I thought maybe it would get better on its own, but I was wrong. If anything, they are becoming clearer. Every night, a new detail I didn't remember before is added to the long list of brutal crimes I dream I did.

"If you don't mind, Zeke, I'm going to go back to bed," I whisper, dumping out the untouched water and slipping past him. He lets me go, only following me with his eyes. My answer was enough to stall his questions, but not for much longer. He'll have to report it if he thinks I'm getting worse. He'll have to say one on his team is compromised. I need to get a handle on my shit before that happens.

But for now, for now I have to try to sleep.

* * *

The sun is hot in Spain, especially on this tile roof. We've been scoping the three possible buildings for 27 hours now. In all that time, Zeke has been completely still except when we rotate shifts. Something about the way he stays completely still, the constant underlying tension in his shoulders, the eerie silence of even his breath, all remind a bit of Clint. That was something I never expected to see in Zeke, but as I get to know him better it becomes more apparent.

"Nathan, have you spotted anything?" I ask through our coms. Nathan is taking an east vantage point, whereas Zeke and I are taking the west. We've moved positions two times, and still no signs of life are coming from these buildings.

" _Nothing_ ," he replies in a clipped tone. His patience is wearing thin and so is mine. Zeke seems completely unaffected.

"Something's not right," I murmur mostly to myself, though I know my team can hear me. "If they were here we would have seen some kind of movement by now." I blink as my vision blurs for a moment in fatigue. We set up a system where two of us take watch for 12 hours, and then one person leaves to rest while the other stays and is joined by the third person. It started out with Nathan and I, then it was Zeke and I, but now it's all three of us because I know I won't be able to sleep anyway.

"Easy, Matheson," Zeke says, staring unmoving down his scope. His voice is quiet yet strained, calm with an undertone of tension, just like the rest of him.

"SHIELD's intel must have been wrong," I argue back, mostly to just say what Nathan and I have been thinking for the past five hours.

"Have you ever actually  _been_  on any stakeouts, besides training?" He asks with the familiar patronizing tone. I feel like reaching over and tipping his precious rifle over the edge of the building, just for some kind of reaction from him if nothing else.

" _Yes_ ," I lie through gritted teeth, putting as much force behind the one word as I can.

"Touchy, touchy," he responds with a small smile. "Someone needs their beauty sleep." I open my mouth to snap back a smart reply when he reaches over and places a finger on my lips. "Don't, you aren't pretty when you scowl." I grab his finger and fling it away from me.

"I don't care if you think I'm pretty," I continue to scowl.

He tisks under his breath, "that's unfortunate, I mean I  _am_  the only person it could possibly matter to."

"Are you saying I should try to  _impress_ you?" I ask incredulously.

"It's not like you have much time to impress people with you moody, scowling, teenage assassin charm in this line of work," he replies matter of factly. "I'm your best bet. Not to mention most girls find me extremely attractive."

"You… you are a  _pig_  and I could find  _plenty_  of men way better than the likes of  _you_  who would date me." There are moments, like last night, where Zeke is serious and concerned for my well-being. Then there are times like right now when I want to strangle that smug smirk off his face.

His laugh cuts across my anger. "It's too easy to rile you up, and very entertaining." His tone changes to mockingly soothing, "I'm sure you would find plenty of poor men who would fall for your French accent." Again his tone changes and he becomes oddly reminiscent and amused, "If I remember right, Kiara Marcelle was one hell of a seductress."

I groan comically, "Please don't remind me. I hated that alias."

"Whyyy? That gold dress was killer."

"Was that a stupid pun?"

"Depends, is it funny?"

"Or did you mean  _punny_?"

"Now  _that_  was a terrible pun."

"Fuck you, Zeke."

"Yea, no, not really my thing."

"Do you always have to be an asshole? I think it's extremely annoying."

"No you don't, you think it's charming. And I'm not an asshole, I hide my inner pain under under my amazing sarcasm and you swoon when you see how broken I really am."

I roll my eyes but let my grin stretch across my face. Bantering with Zeke is one of the few ways I can really laugh and feel a release of tension. And not just a release like my punching bag is a channeling of anger, but never really makes it go away. Being with Zeke this way makes me forget my problems, makes me forget the reality of who we are and what we do.

" _Omega Strike Team, I have a visual on movement on the northeast door of building number . A women, red hair, is moving your way."_  Zeke and I zero our focus in on Nathan's words. I calculate his position in my head and track her trajectory until I find where she should be coming into our sights. Sure enough, just as I slide my eyes to that corner of the building, a girl with wild red hair is sprinting towards the alley to the left of the rooftop Zeke and I are currently situated.

" _I have… fifteen more hostels in pursuit."_  I frown at Nathan's statement. No wonder the girl is sprinting. I raise my binoculars and focus in on her. She has nothing about her to betray she's being hunted except a slightly maniacal gleam of what I can only describe as exhilaration. This bitch is crazy. A second glance shows me she runs with a limp, a bloody hand clutched to her side, and a bashed up face. But something tickles my memory. I know her, somehow. It's like when you have a feeling when you see someone, but you can't remember their name or where you ever could have met them. That feeling is like an itch I can't scratch, but something else trumps out her familiarity. A feeling of both dread and yet an odd sense of being drawn, as if I can't stop myself. There is some correlation between her and my dreams, I know it, it's like an element of the fantasy of those horrors has suddenly come alive in front of me, though I've never specifically seen her in my dreams. But I do know one thing, I can't let her die.

"She's not one of them," I whisper my realization. "We have to help her." I tear the binoculars from my eyes and look to Zeke. He has pulled his face away from his scope and is watching her running form looking like he might be sick. I reach over and place my hand on his forearm to get his attention. "Zeke! We have to  _do something_. They'll hunt her down like an animal."

He jerks his arm away from me and rolls away from the edge of the roof. "We  _can't_ , you know that as well as I do."

"Why?  _Why_  not, Zeke?"

"We have  _orders_ —" His hazel eyes are blazing with an intensity and fire that I match with my own.

"So did I when I made a call to spare your life. Would you have me reserve that decision to just a few? I'm sorry, but I can't decide who lives and who dies like that." My voice nearly cracks at the end, but it stays strong except for a slight tremor.

"No, no you don't. That's up to your superiors. You're nothing but a tool they use. You're the gun, and they pull the trigger. It would be better you learned that now." I'm pulled to a stop by the bitterness in his voice, the harshness. He's never spoken that way to me before.

Shaking myself internally from the hurt I feel, I harden my resolution. "Well if you're too weak to help, I won't stop you. Just stay out of my way."

I push off and start sprinting the opposite direction across the roof. I tune out Zeke's curses and focus on the edge of the building. I count down the steps and mentally calculate just when I hit the edge and I'll have to jump to the next roof. I plant my foot right on the very edge with perfect accuracy and launch myself into the air.

Just one moment of suspension gives me a thrill before I land hard on the other side and roll to absorb the impact. I glance down at the street to see the girl has just entered the alley. If she has any sense, she'll take a right turn and head towards the populated area of the city. I run to the corner of the roof and watch to make sure she does as I expect her to. She does. But right before she rounds the corner, I see the men following her just come into sight. A shout goes up and they put on a burst of speed, but she's starting to lag. I turn and sprint along the edge of the roof until I come to edge and I take another flying leap to the next roof, mentally thanking Europe for such narrow alleyways.

I hit the ground running, keeping my eyes on my target.  _Damn, this is going to hurt._  The next roof is across a wider alley. I wouldn't be able to make the jump, but I don't need to. I grab a device out of my uniform belt and click a button, aiming for the edge of the next roof, and then I jump.

My stomach drops for a moment as I free fall. To my eternal thankfulness, the grapple hook finds its purchase and the line goes taught as my downward trajectory is jerked to a painful stop, and suddenly I swinging with alarming speed towards the next building wall. I use the soles of my boots to break the impact, but my knees bend and crash into the wall. That stings like a bitch.

I take a moment to steady my breathing and then begin to shimmy down the line. I run to the center of the empty street, my target: a metal grate into the sewer system. In no time I have the grate off and lying to the side before I run to the street corner. Taking cover behind the building, I peek around to see the girl is heading my way with the gang still on her heels.

Breathe. Steady. Wait for the right time. I have a moment to think, and the question that comes to mind is  _why?_ Why do I feel so drawn to her? Why do I  _somehow_ know there is something very important about her, but I don't consciously know what it is? Why am I being irresistibly drawn to her?

Before I can find an answer, it's time to move. I wait until she comes within inches of me. My hand flashes out and I grasp her arm, pulling her into the alley with me.

Yet another moment arises where I have Clint's constant surprise attack training to thank. Instinct takes over before I can think when I see a flash of a knife in her hand. I block her upward slash and bend back as her left hook sails above me. In a fluid motion, I snap back up, kick her injured leg from under her and twist her arm holding the knife behind hers, making her release it. She struggles, and she's  _strong_ , but her movements are hampered by my hold on her. Even so, I know I only have moments before she breaks my hold.

" _Listen_  to me. I'm here to help you." I release her and push her away from me. She swings around so I can see her wild eyes. I hold my hands up in a show of truce. I point to the grate, "Look, there's your exit route. Go, if you want." There's a tense silence between us. I study her eyes, trying to find something to answer the thousands of questions I have swarming my thoughts every time I see her. Finally, the questions begin to flood out. "Who  _are_  you? How do I know you?"

Her expression was previously guarded, but it suddenly dawns with recognition. The side of her mouth pulls up in a sinister smile, like she knows something I don't. Something bad. I take a step forward, my voice rising in intensity, "I need  _answers_. Why do I keep having dreams? What am I missing?  _Who am I?_ " The words rise in hysteria until I am nearly screaming. Frustration, fear, confusion, and anger I didn't even know I had suddenly surface and I want to rip someone's throat out.

She steps forward and grasps my forearm, "I know who you are. I can tell you everything, if you will meet me outside the city a week from now at the bridge by  _La Corazon_.  _You must tell no one_. If you don't come alone, don't bother coming at all." I look into her eyes and see understanding. She really does know. She knows what I am going through. I feel an odd connection to her, as if I am afraid of her and I have an utmost loyalty to her at the same time. I suddenly realize I am shaking all over.

Simultaneously, both of us become aware of the sound of her pursuers just around the corner. I pull away from her grasp and try to collect myself, "Go, take the exit. Get out of here. I can hold them off." I clench my shaking hands into fists. My vision is becoming a red haze. Oh shit no. This has happened before, but not lately. The times I get tunnel vision and my consciousness blacks out

She hesitates, her eyes wavering. "You can't fight all of them on your own."

"I won't be. My partner is coming," I respond with more conviction then I feel. I know he will come, I knew the moment I ditched his ass on the rooftop, but I just don't know if he'll get here soon enough.

"I hope to see you soon then," with one last moment of hesitation, she tosses me the knife and sprints for the grate. I watch her disappear into the sewer before turning to the sounds of heavy boots slapping against the pavement. I look down at my balled my fists, one clenched around the knife. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm my pounding heart. I  _know_  her, I know this girl. The red in my vision is becoming worse. The girl's pursuers round the corner. They slow down when they see my standing in the center of the street, alone and unarmed, and no red head.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," the foremost guard says. "We know the bitch went this way, just tell us where she went and we'll let you go."

"Sorry, I don't think you're intelligent enough to understand the directions I would have to give you." I reply with sarcasm by default. I'm fighting the red mist that is coming like a veil across my mind.

He laughs, walking forward casually, "I was hoping you'd say something like that."

I can't fight it anymore. I give one gasp before I am totally consumed by this bloodlust. I have time to smirk once at him before he throws the first punch.

**Zeke's POV**

Why do women have in their DNA to complicate everything? We had simple orders, but could Keira just stick to our sanction? No, she  _had_  to go running right into trouble.

I follow after her, hampered by the weight of the rifle strapped to my back. "Ortuso, she's going after the girl goddammit. I need your ass over here now."

" _I'm on my way_."

"Once you get to our stake out location, head west across the rooftops and keep an eye on the alley ways."

" _Understood."_  I expect him to check out, but I'm surprised when he pauses and adds, " _find her, Zeke._ "

It's an order for me to protect her. My jaw clenches, "I plan on it." I disconnect our coms and focus on trying to run with the rifle thumping against my back. I only stumble back slightly when I land the jump across the alley because of the extra weight of the gun, and then take off sprinting again.

As I run, I begin to pick up the sounds of combat getting closer. I skid to a stop at the edge of a building and look down. Below me I see the battle from a bird's eye view. Immediately I swing my riffle around to the front of my body and settle myself on the edge of the building, looking through the scope onto the scene. I immediately focus on Keira, singling her out from the others. I freeze at what I see.

She's cutting down the men down like a serpent amongst mice, not that 250 pound men are usually compared to mice. I've never seen her move so fast, in all the time I've known her. Something about her, everything about her, is off. For one, she's killing the men left and right with absolutely no regard to their lives. This isn't the same girl who wouldn't shoot even to defend herself. She slashes throats viciously, snaps bones with ease, and twists necks with effortless familiarity. There is more to her movements then just nearly unbelievable speed, her movements are completely wrong to her fighting style. She's using moves I've never even seen before. She's fighting with a precision that is uncannily accurate and deadly. But it's when I see her face that I know something is very terribly wrong.

Her face is splattered with blood that isn't her own and she is smiling a blood chilling smile. I barely recognize her face as the girl I am partnered with. Her face is something I've never seen before. It isn't twisted into some evil monster, rather she looks more beautiful than ever. It's like the beauty of a snake, the beauty of something lethal and deadly. A fallen angel. I don't know this person. She looks like she's  _enjoying_  this. This slaughter isn't self-defense to her, its cold blooded butchery.

With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watch as she cuts through the men. I can't believe it, by herself she managed to subdue fifteen men. She is battling the last one, but he won't survive long. Suddenly, a movement in the edge of my scope catches my eye. One of the men who was previously lying still and bloody on the floor begins to laboriously stand. I see the man get behind her. He's in her blind spot. He raises a knife. She won't turn around in time.

My shot cracks like a symbol clap across the alleyway. The man falls, transfixed by the hole in his head. Keira whips around in time to watch the man fall. She freezes, staring down at the dead man. Slowly, she turns in a circle, as if seeing the carnage around her for the first time. Then she raises her eyes up to mine, and again I'm stunned by her expression.

Tears are running freely down her bloody splattered cheeks, but I've never seen such fear in her eyes. Fear of herself. Something is wrong with her, and she knows it.

**Keira's POV**

I collapse to my knees on the slick pavement. I vaguely wonder why it's slick. I lift my hands from where they are touching the street, and my hands come away red. It's blood. Without warning I heave all the contents of my stomach.

The bloodlust was like nothing I have ever felt before. Everything became muddled and crystal clear at once. All at once, I had finally felt like the missing piece to the puzzle had fallen into place. I knew who I  _was_. I was doing what I had been trained for my whole life, what I had been  _born_  for. I don't know how I knew to fight like that, but suddenly my muscles knew what to do, even if my brain didn't.

But it's gone now. I'm left empty, confused, and horrified. Is that what I am? Am I a monster? Am I a wolf walking around in sheep's skin? Is that why I never feel at home in my own skin? Am I a nightmare wrapped in the guise an innocent fantasy?

Rough hands grasp my shoulders. I let out a little scream and jerk my head up to see Zeke. I reach out with my hands to grab him, and I realize my body is shaking with full blown tremors. I reach for Zeke, I have to know I am not hideous. I have to know I am not something that disgusts him.

I grab him and pull him closer then he already is, waiting for him to push me away in horror at the monster I am. He doesn't. He holds me closer. His rumbling voice is whispering something in my ear, but I focus on the cadence of his voice and beat of his heart rather than the words. I feel the dampness of his shirt from his sweat, and I find it comforting. I fist his shirt in my hand, and I realize his shirt is now stained with bloody handprints. My handprints. I stain anything I touch. There is blood on my hands. The question is, how much blood?

He draws us to our feet and holds me there. It's when I open my eyes that I realize they were squeezed shut. His hazel eyes find mine. I search them for an answer, any answer.

He has one to give. "Keira." He says my name as if it were a prayer. As if I were a fallen angel, and he will fall with me.

* * *

I am sitting numbly on the edge of the tub with my hands clenched so they are white. Zeke is crouching next to me with a rough washcloth pressed against a cut on my forehead.

I have never been so thankful for Zeke than in this moment. He led me out of the alley and got us back to the safehouse. I was too nonfunctional to even hail a taxi. He got us reconnected with Nathan and got us back to base. He never let go of me once. When we got back he knew exactly what to do. He calmly told Nathan to request SHIELD to erase the security camera footage from the… fight in the alley and then brought me in here. He washed away the blood from my hands and wiped it away from my face. He asked me if I was injured anywhere. I didn't know so I shrugged. He looked me over and found my bloody knees and a few gashes here and there, but I didn't care. I am just grateful he is here. He never looked at me with fear or reproach.

"Okay, I think you're all good. You should probably take a shower, and I need to change. I'll get you some clothes," he says.

I tilt my head back to look at him. I don't want him to leave, but I can't think of any good reason to make him stay.  _Don't leave me Zeke, I don't want to be alone because I'm terrified I'll turn into my nightmares_ , just doesn't sound very sane, especially after what he saw me do, what he saw me become. Instead I whisper, "Thank you, Zeke." I mean it. He dips his eyes in acknowledgement and leaves, shutting the door behind him

**Zeke's POV**

I shut the door carefully behind me. I don't want her to hear the inevitable barrage of questions Nathan will slam me with.

"How is she?" He asks right off the bat. I look at him sharply. His face is the perfect mix of worried and maybe a little frantic. But something I don't recognize is wiped from his eyes before I can determine what it was. But I do know it was odd. It sends the familiar prickle down my neck I get when there's something I missing about a person.

"She just slaughtered fifteen people, Nathan, how do you think she is?" But there isn't any real bite to my words. I'm too tired for that now.

"I saw the footage…" He says.

"Good for you." I pull my blood stained shirt over my head and throw it into the trash. "Did you ask SHIELD techs to erase it from the system?" I grab a new white shirt from my disorganized suitcase and pull it over my head, yanking it over my abdomen.

"Yes," he responds. He hesitates. "I can tell you're upset by something, Zeke."

" _Upset?_ " I round on him and fix him with my most intense glare. To his credit, he doesn't shrink or flinch like nearly the entire population of the world would. "You weren't  _there_ —"

"It's possible she was overcome with adrenaline," he interrupts sharply.

"You saw the footage, Ortuso," I scoff. "That was more than adrenaline."

He shakes his head adamantly, "I've heard of training kicking in to its full extent in the field, when the person is under pressure—"

"Are you kidding? They don't even  _train_  people like that at SHIELD. No… you didn't see her  _face_." I place my hands on the kitchen counter, gripping the edge and studying the granite pattern. "She wasn't  _Keira_ , she was someone different. I hardly recognized her…"

"What are you saying?" He asks slowly.

I look up and study his face. The way he's looking at me now, cautious and calculating, with his head cocked to the side slightly and his arms folded across his chest. I swear he and Keira are so similar sometimes. She will strike that exact pose, that exact tone, when she talks to me. I feel my heart constrict. "I don't know, Nathan! That's the point, isn't it? There's something going on here we don't know. There's something she isn't telling us."

"You're wrong." My head immediately whips to the sound of her voice. Seeing her standing in the doorway is a punch to my gut. Her tangled dark hair falls to her waist, her face is white as a sheet and her hands are still shaking slightly, but they're better than they used to be. She raises her huge grey eyes to mine and juts out her chin determinedly, "I have as little of an idea at what's going on as you do."

I stay silent and grip the counter harder. Nathan moves forward with open arms. She immediately accepts his embrace and wraps her arms around his torso with her chin propped on his shoulder. She meets my eyes from over his shoulder. I try to read any lies there, but I see nothing but her sincerity.

They pull away and Keira walks up next to me and pulls herself up to sit on the counter. She gathers one knee under her chin and swings the other leg. It's such a casual posture for the gravity of our situation, I'm a little thrown off.

"Let's start with the basics," I begin. "Has this ever happened before?" She studies her foot pensively, but other than that her expression is closed off. I lean forward and barely touch her thigh. She still flinches. "Keira, I need you to tell us. We are your team and you trust us."

She lifts her gaze to me and says softly, "You will have to report this."

The phrase isn't much, but I understand the implications. The more we dive into this can of worms, the more she's afraid we'll realize how messed up she really is, and the more evidence will be stacked against her. She could have her agent status taken away. She could even be labeled 'mentally unstable.'

I grip her knee, forcing intensity to bleed into my eyes and voice. "No, we don't. We watch each other's backs. If the situation were reversed, I would maybe even break protocol for Nathan," I glance sideways at him with a small grin.

He snorts derisively, "thanks."

"I know you're in love with me, but don't get emotional," I reply and turn my attention back to Keira. "I'm going to do what I can to help you, you have to trust that."

She studies me intently for a moment before suddenly coming to a decision. She begins to talk, her voice is much more resolute then I would have expected from her at this moment. "I can't remember specifically when it started. It's like one of those things you've lived with for so long you can't remember how it even began. It's those… dreams. They've been getting worse. I can barely sleep at night. At least, I used to think they were dreams. They get more and more vivid. I begin to  _see_  the fear in my target's eyes. I  _remember_  the feeling of holding their life and pain in my hands… I remember  _enjoying_  the control I had." her voice cracks and she breaks off, determinedly swallowing with a look of self-loathing on her face.

I remember waking up to her scream just a few nights ago. We had never slept in the same room before on missions, except maybe falling asleep over plans late at night. She had jumped awake some of those nights, but I thought it was a natural reflex. She would leave then, never letting us see her truly asleep. Now I know why. I knew she had trouble getting a full night's sleep in, especially when I'd pass the training gym at three in the morning to see her punching a bag with bursts of frustrated energy. I never would have guessed  _this_.

"I can't explain it. I used to know who I was. I thought these images were just subconscious projections of my violent past… a way of those memories manifesting themselves that wasn't real. But then… they kept becoming more and more  _real_. Not as in vivid, I mean I would get sudden feelings that something that happened to me years ago never actually  _happened_ , and these dreams were more real than those memories." She suddenly laughs bitterly, "I thought I was going insane. Until I saw  _her_ , the operative the men were chasing today. When I saw her it was the same feeling as the memories. The  _exact_  same feeling. I  _knew_  her, not necessarily that I remember knowing her, but I had  _feelings_  when I saw her that I can't explain. She has something to do with my… dreams." She raises her eyes and glances between Nathan and I, her eyes desperately pleading with us to understand. " _I knew her_."

"We believe you, Keira," Nathan soothes. I glance at him sharply.

"We do?"

His eyes harden as he slides them over to me. I don't know how he manages to do this when he's shorter than me, but he has this way of being able to look down his nose at me. "Yes, Zeke, of course we do."

"I wouldn't make this up," She tries to justify herself desperately.

I look down at her, "Of course I don't think you'd make this up. But it's not natural. This isn't some post mission stress, there is something fundamentally  _wrong_  here."

"I'm not crazy!" She almost shouts.

"I never said you  _were_ ," I reply exasperatedly. "I'm saying, you either had a huge hit to the head that made you  _forget_  you were a contract assassin and inexplicably supplied fake memories of a fake life, or someone did this to you. I find the second much more convincing, don't you?"

Her voice gets suddenly soft. "Are you saying nothing of my past is  _real_? All my memories are fake?"

 _Uh oh. Danger zone_. I try to back pedal. "We don't know anything for sure yet, I'm just speculating." I try to draw her attention away from where I can see her thoughts going. "The real issue here is  _if_  this is real, then there are only a handful of people in the world with that kind of technology."

"We could make a list and track them?" Nathan asks.

"Maybe," I concede.

"We don't have that kind of intel," Keira speaks up. "Only SHIELD level eight would have access, and we're not even close to that paygrade."

"Don't forget, I was in the business far longer than you have been with SHIELD. I know organizations SHIELD has no idea even exist." My father dealt with all the low down dirty types, including the ones who didn't want to get their hands dirty. I was his weapon. I would take contracts for him that he got from others. When you do that enough, you have your ear to the ground and you hear some enlightening information.

"What if… what if no one did this to me?" Keira asks with a tremor in her voice. "What if I'm just… broken." She sounds helpless, like she's about to give up.

She can't do that. She can't give up.

"Hey, look at me," I put my knuckle under her chin and force it up so she meet my eyes. "I've seen crazy. I've worked with psychopaths.  _You_ aren't crazy. Maybe a little broken, maybe a little cracked, but nothing we can't fix."

She nods, looking deep into my eyes, searching for sincerity. After a long moment of silence, she pulls away. "I want to tell Clint."

Nathan and I frown at the same time. He beats me to objecting. "That's not a good idea, Keira. He'll be obliged by SHIELD protocols to alert the Council—"

"So are you and you're not running to hand me over, are you?"

"No," he responds slowly, obviously testing out how best to reason with an emotional train wreck. "Of course we aren't, but it is Hawkeye's  _job_  to watch for signs of instability in his agent. Telling him about this and then expecting him to keep it from the Director is a much bigger deal than simply keeping it between amongst ourselves."

I mentally applaud Ortuso's verbalization of my fears, but I can tell by the set of Keira's jaw and the steel glint of her eyes that she won't back down on this.

"I trusted Clint before I even knew any of you. He's more to me than just an S.O. to me." There are unspoken words I know she will never be able to say. She can never say how much she trusts Barton, how he pulled her back from the brink and she will never be able to repay him. How he was the first person to ever teach her how to trust. And fortunately or unfortunately with Keira, once her trust is earned she will stick to that person to the point of blindness.

"Keira, you have to believe us on this. Whatever personal attachments you have, you have to set them aside, for your own safety." I try to make my tone reasoning yet firm.

There was a time when she would have immediately bristled at my words, taken them with the firm conviction I mean them the worst way they could be meant. It shows how far we've come when she actually contemplates them before answering, "If both of you agree on this, then I guess I'll go with your lead. It doesn't feel right somehow," she ends with trepidation.

"Of all the things that could possibly  _not_  feel right about this situation…" I huff with a laugh.

She gives me a sad smile before jumping down from the counter and saying, "normally I would go for a run or destroy a punching bag, but since neither of those options are available I'm going to get some sleep."

I'm pleasantly surprised with her decision to deal with the stress of the situation in a healthy way. I nod and watch as she walks away. Finally, we're getting somewhere with this team of messed up, mistrusting, taciturn teenagers.

**Keira's POV**

I didn't  _lie_  to them… not really. I just omitted a few details… like the strange girl telling me to meet her in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night in a week… and I plan on meeting her… no big deal… right?

Except it feels like a big deal. For once in my life I feel bad about withholding information from others. They think I trusted them with everything. They think they're making progress. Well, maybe we are. Maybe I just need to do this to get it out of my head. Maybe she has answers. What possible harm could come of this, I continue to ask myself.

_Just the small facts that this could be a trap, you know nothing about her, she could be HYDRA, she could be an agent for the Masteria, she could be working for literally anyone. I could die, I could be captured and tortured, but I coud also have all my memories return… Do I even what my memories back?_

The last question haunts my thoughts. Maybe I don't want to know who I was. I don't think I was a very nice person.

 _Was? You don't even know if those dreams are actually memories._ Right. I have to keep perspective on what I know definitively and what is pure speculation. For example, I don't know for sure that I'm a mass murderer who committed heinous crimes, so why don't I hang onto the hope that I am  _not_  that.

But it gets harder and harder every day to separate memories from dreams, reality from subconscious fears.

I lie down on my back and stare at the ceiling. There's no way I'm getting any sleep for a while. So much pressure is built up. I do feel better having shared a part of my secret with my team, but the stress of other things steal the relief I feel. Other things such as keeping this from Clint and keeping my midnight-rendezvous with a possible killer from my team.

"This is Omega Strike Team 113 calling for a 24 hour debrief," I hear Zeke say from the other side of the door. "We finished casing the building. We had a run in with a common patrol, but they were terminated before they could alert anyone to our presence. We… no, there were no injuries. Wait, there's really no need… yes sir. Yes sir, I understand. We'll follow directive immediately."

"Is there a new directive?" Nathan questions.

"No, but we will get new orders in 3 hours. From here till then we are expected to relocate to the nearest SHIELD base and join forces with the team there."

I'm too numb to really be properly startled by this, but Nathan isn't. "Wait… what?"

"I know, that's what I said too," Zeke responds sarcastically.

"We don't need other team members, we can handle this fine on our own," Nathan argues.

"I agree, but I didn't issue the order," Zeke sounds annoyed. His footsteps stop outside my door and he pushes it open. I roll my eyes, ever the gentleman. "Hope you had a nice nap, because it's over."


End file.
